


Four Walls

by TheRealKateKane



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Biting, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I am a sucker for knight/lord power dynamics, Oaths & Vows, Post-Time Skip, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Service Submission, Slow Build, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealKateKane/pseuds/TheRealKateKane
Summary: “I swear my loyalty and service to Mercedes von Martritz. My shield will be your protection and my sword will be your defense. I will be without fear when I face your enemies. I will be brave and confident in danger. I will be without hesitation at your command. I will be compassionate and kind to those in need. This I pledge. You have my sword, my loyalty, and my obedience until such time as either death or lord release me.” It was the oath that Ingrid had memorized since childhood and only uttered once before. The words fell from her lips automatically, and she felt strangely at peace. There was such comfort in those words.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 42
Kudos: 87





	1. The First Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Just a wee thing I've been playing with in between Slow Burn and original works. I have been wanting a good lord/liege fic with Ingrid, and there are already several phenomenal ones with her and Edelgard, so I am just trying something different.

As horrific as it had been, the war had given Ingrid purpose and structure. She found herself in the role she had yearned for since childhood: a faithful knight of the king of Faerghus. When she rose every morning, there was never any question how her day would be spent. There was a routine, and her activities were dictated by her king, or more often the professor who was the real tactician of the two of them. Duty governed her actions, and obedience guided her.

But the war had ended, and so had her service to the king. Twisted by hate and vengeance, Dimitri became someone Ingrid no longer recognized. He was so consumed by rage and malice that the solution to any problem became death. Mercy had been banished along with compassion. Anyone who opposed him was to be cut down, slaughtered. They had killed so many. Former friends. Classmates. People they had shared meals with at the dining hall. Those they had sparred with, trained with. All became victims of his majesty’s wrath.

By the end of the war, he had mellowed. His fury had calmed, and his crusade of murderous reprisal ended. He became more of the Dimitri she knew, had grown up with. The professor was the only one of them that could reach him, that could pull him back from the abyss he was losing himself in. But his mask had been removed, and behind his smile and warmth lurked a man capable of cruelty and malice. The darkness was still there, would always be there. And Ingrid could no longer serve him in good conscience. What separated knights from common sellswords were their ideals, their values. In order to preserve her integrity, she could no longer be in his service.

He lamented her departure, of course. For a moment, she was afraid that he would view it as a betrayal. Indeed, his eyes had hardened dangerously, and she caught a glimpse of the darkness again. But he had smiled, though it did not reach his eyes, wished her well, and released her from his service.

She had stayed for the wedding, of course. It was more for the professor’s sake than his majesty’s. It was no surprise when the two had announced their wedding. It had always been obvious to anyone with eyes that Dimitri was smitten with their beloved professor, and once the war ended, the professor had finally confessed his feelings for his former student.

Ingrid watched as the king kissed his new husband, and a raucous cheer erupted from the crowd. The bells of the church echoed the announcement across the whole city: the king was married, long live the kings! No one would be sober in the capital tonight. She glanced over to Sylvain, who whistled and hollered while Felix rolled his eyes, the faintest of smiles cracking his stoicism. She wondered how long it would be before they too married.

The pressure of a gentle hand in the small of her back had startled her. Mercedes had smiled a sheepish apology and leaned in close, so close her lips had brushed Ingrid’s ear as she spoke. “Are you ready?”

Rather than shout to be heard over the crowd, Ingrid had nodded and allowed Mercedes to lead her away from the celebration and their past.

When the war ended, her father had wasted no time in arranging new marriage proposals for Ingrid. She had refused them all and renounced any claim she had to the Galatea title and lands. Her father made it equally clear that it was no longer home for her. But she could not remain in the capital. She needed to be free of the weight of the past, free from the expectations of people she had grown up with, trained with, gone to war with. She needed her own path.

It almost seemed natural that she ended up with Mercedes, who had all but insisted she accompany her back to her hometown. They had been close friends for years and shared a special bond of kinship as women that men treated like property because of their crests. Their respective fathers had bartered and traded with other noble families, using their daughters as political currency. They both had the pressure of their families’ futures thrust upon them. Like Ingrid, Mercedes had refused the responsibility in favor of her own path.

Dimitri had given her rights and funding to convert an old school into an orphanage to care for the startling number of children whose parents had been killed in the war. It suited the bishop, much more than war did. Her path had always been helping others.

During the day, Mercedes supervised repairs to the school, which had been quite neglected over the past six years. The roof needed to be patched, the dormitories renovated, the kitchen needed a complete overhaul. Ingrid helped where she could, carrying supplies or helping her dispose of the old mattresses which were moldy and damp or conducting minor repairs. Ingrid didn’t feel like she contributed much, but Mercedes always rewarded her with one of her wide, genuine smiles.

In the evening, they would return to the cottage adjacent the schoolhouse. It was the old headmistress’s quarters, but it was to be Mercedes’s home so long as she ran the orphanage. If Ingrid was already home, she would prepare dinner. While she lacked the other woman’s skill or finesse in the kitchen, she could manage a passable enough meal. If they returned together, they also cooked together with Mercedes taking the lead.

It was not quite the life she envisioned for herself, but it was not permanent. Most importantly, it was far from the capital, far from her past life.

They had settled into a routine, but as the weeks passed and summer faded into autumn, she began to feel restless. There was less that needed to be done around the orphanage, and there was less to occupy her time. She could only spend so much time training in the small practice yard behind the cottage, and without anyone to spar with, she feared her skills would dull. Such idleness made her irritable.

“Goddess dammit!” She swore as the knife sliced through the potato and into her hand. The knife clattered to the counter, and she grabbed ahold of her opposite hand, squeezing it tightly but blood had already began leaking between her fingers. It was a deep cut. “Son of a—”

“Ingrid!” Mercedes was already on her feet, abandoning the carrots she had been peeling at the kitchen table. She took Ingrid’s hands in her own. “Let me see.”

Shaking her head, the knight refused to relinquish her grip on the injured hand. “Goddess dammit!” She swore again as pain lanced through her fingers and into her wrist.

“Ingrid!” Mercedes said reproachfully. “The language is uncalled for.” Ingrid felt her face burn. If anyone was suited to running an orphanage, it was the bishop who could manage to make a full-grown knight feel like a scolded child. She should have no problem keeping a legion of children in line. “Let me see. Don’t shake your head at me, Ingrid. Let me see.”

Reluctantly, she let the healer peel her uninjured hand away from her wound. The loss of pressure allowed blood to spurt freely from the cut, and it stained Mercedes hands. Unbothered by the blood, she gently prodded the edges of the wound, and Ingrid winced. “I should be able to heal it; it’s deep but I don’t think the muscle is too badly damaged.”

The sensation of being healed by magic was always a little unsettling. It was half-way between a tickle and an itch, and Ingrid had to fight the instinct to jerk her hand back. The pain faded to a throbbing ache, and after several minutes the wound had completely closed, the only sign of it a faint pink line.

“Thank you.” Ingrid murmured and flexed her hand experimentally. It was stupid. She could have injured herself severely. What if she had sliced a tendon? She could have ruined her grip permanently and been unable to hold a lance. All because she was careless.

Mercedes watched the emotions flicker across her friend’s expression. She had never been very adept at hiding her feelings, and lately frustration seemed to have taken up a semi-permanent residence in the furrows of her brow. Something had eroded her patience over the past couple of weeks, leaving her easily angered and upset by the smallest things. Earlier that afternoon, Ingrid had dropped the hammer while she had been attempting to hang a portrait of the kings in the new dining hall. The knight had sworn loudly and for a moment, Mercedes thought she might throw the hammer in frustration.

She cleaned the blood from her hands in the nearby washbasin, finished preparing the vegetables, and dumped them into the pot while Ingrid cleaned her own hands and discarded the pink water. When she had returned from rinsing and refilling the basin, she motioned for Ingrid to join her at the table. It would not do for her friend to go on like this.

When the knight sat across from her, she appeared subdued, almost sullen. “I’m sorry, Mercie. I just…” She folded her hands on the table in front of her, but her gaze fixed on them.

Mercedes reassured her by covering her hands with her own. “It is clear something is bothering you and has been bothering you for some time now.” She squeezed the knight’s hands. “Don’t you think it might help if you talked about it?”

For a moment, it appeared as though Ingrid might brush her off, retreat further into herself. She withdrew her hands and folded them in her lap. After a long moment of silence, she spoke. “Ever since I can remember, all I have ever wanted to be was a knight. But not just any knight, a true knight – one serving a master. And for a while, I had that. But Dimitri…”

Waiting patiently for her friend to find the words, Mercedes felt a pang of empathy. Those had been the hardest days during the war, and many times she herself had thought of leaving, when their king and friend had taken a turn for the darkness. In the end, she could not abandon her friends and comrades, Ingrid and Annette especially.

“If I am to swear an oath to serve a master, they must be worthy of that oath.” Ingrid finally said in a rush, as if exhaling the words. “And Dimitri was no longer worthy.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I have loved being here with you, and I am so grateful that you allowed me to come with you. Please don’t think I am not, Mercie.” The bishop shook her head and smiled faintly to reassure her. “But… I feel so idle and useless without serving.” Her voice took on an edge of frustration.

“But you have been.” Mercedes pointed out. “I could never have managed reopening this orphanage without you! Is not service to others still serving? I would think all you have done to be very knightly: selfless, compassionate, noble…”

“It isn’t the same.” Ingrid smiled weakly, grateful for her friend’s attempt to cheer her. “I can’t explain why exactly.”

“Because it was not done at the direction of a master?” Mercedes ventured, suddenly understanding and understanding much better than Ingrid herself did.

“Maybe?” Ingrid finally raised her eyes to her friend’s face and was reassured by the warmth and compassion she saw. Dear Mercedes. That was her gift, more than her ability to heal, she could make anyone feel safe and understood. “I think otherwise I am just exerting my will when it is a knight’s duty to carry out the will of the one that they are sworn to.”

“Oh,” The other woman paused. “Then why not serve me?”

“What?”

“You could be my knight,” Mercedes said lightly. “That way you are carrying out my will.”

“I—” Ingrid felt her face flush for an unknown reason. She had always imagined herself in the service of a noble house, to a lord or lady. But there was nothing that said a knight could not swear themselves to someone else.

Mercedes cheeks pinkened. “Unless you think I am unworthy.” It was meant to tease, but the knight could detect a current of uncertainty in the statement.

“No!” Ingrid exclaimed. If anyone were worthy of a knight’s oath, it was Mercedes. No one was as compassionate and honest and good as she was. The bishop was genuine and selfless. In the House of Blue Lions and all the kingdom of Faerghus, there was no one better than her, she was sure. It hurt Ingrid that her friend doubted that, even if for only a second. “You were always the best of us, Mercedes.”

“It was only a suggestion, Ingrid. If you’re not comfortable…” The bishop smiled sadly. “I just worry. You cannot continue as you have been, frustrated all the time. Unhappy. I selfishly am afraid you will leave, but you cannot remain if you’re unhappy.”

Though Ingrid had always thought of her arrangement with Mercedes as temporary, she suddenly could not bear the thought of leaving her, not when it left her so hurt. But the bishop was correct. She could not continue as she had been either. Eventually, the frustration and irritability would come to a breaking point. She had already been careless enough to cut herself, a mistake she normally wouldn’t make. She chewed on her lower lip, thinking.

It would not be terribly different than they had been. She would continue to train and help Mercedes with the orphanage. The only difference would be the context. These things would be done now in service to the bishop in accordance with her will. And she trusted her.

Without saying a word, Ingrid stood and rounded the table to where the other woman sat and knelt beside her on both knees. Mercedes flushed in surprise. “Oh, Ingrid, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Ingrid swallowed, sounding much more confident than she felt kneeling at the feet of her closest friend. “If we are to do this, it must be done correctly. Please.”

Nodding, Mercedes turned in her chair to face Ingrid, the blush fading from her cheeks. She gave another nod, this one solemn.

“I swear my loyalty and service to Mercedes von Martritz. My shield will be your protection and my sword will be your defense. I will be without fear when I face your enemies. I will be brave and confident in danger. I will be without hesitation at your command. I will be compassionate and kind to those in need. This I pledge. You have my sword, my loyalty, and my obedience until such time as either death or lord release me.” It was the oath that she had memorized since childhood and only uttered once before. The words fell from her lips automatically, and she felt strangely at peace. There was such comfort in those words.

She felt her chin lifted by Mercedes’s fingers until their eyes met. “I accept your oath, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, and swear to you in turn the security and sanctuary of my home. May you only find honor in my service.” A small gasp escaped Ingrid at those words. She had not expected Mercedes to know, let alone respond with, the oath of a lord to her sworn knight. Pale blue eyes held bright green for several breaths. Finally, the hand lifting her chin migrated to cup Ingrid’s cheek. “My sweet knight.” Mercedes smiled.

The smile left her breathless and the words made her dizzy, narrowing her vision. Quickly, Ingrid looked away. What had suddenly gotten into her? Her chest felt both tight and airy at the same time. She cleared her throat to hopefully clear her head. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you knew the oath of a lord, Mercie.”

The bishop smiled and withdrew her hand. “Just because I never had any intention of becoming a knight myself, did not mean I did not enjoy the stories of them.” Her smile widened. “Come, off the floor. Dinner should be ready.”

Ingrid realized she was still kneeling and reluctantly climbed to her feet, wondering at the odd sensation of loss she felt by standing.

When they sat across from one another to eat, it felt like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The first wall crumbled under the weight of their oath.


	2. The Second Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without any warning, Mercedes grabbed her chin firmly in one hand and turned her face to look at her. When green eyes met blue, her mouth went completely dry. The bishop’s face was unreadable, the usual smile and warmth absent. Yet, it was not unkind either. It was deliberate, the slight dip of her brow gave her an expression of absolute authority. “That is the last time you will make me repeat myself.” She paused. “Is that clear, Ingrid?”

The next morning felt normal, no different than the others. By the time Ingrid had groggily dragged herself downstairs to the kitchen, Mercedes already had tea and biscuits and honey waiting for her, just like she always did. They ate breakfast together, discussing their plans for the day. Knowing that Ingrid preferred to train in the morning, Mercedes had asked if she would accompany her to the trade district that afternoon. The new mattresses for the orphanage were supposed to be delivered yesterday, but they had not been.

It was almost as if nothing had happened the previous night.

When the bishop left, Ingrid finished eating and tidied the kitchen before heading to the yard. She warmed up by throwing herself through a rigorous routine of stretches the professor had taught her, over half a decade ago. When she finished, she stood in front of the bench that held her weapons. Most of the time, she practiced with either lance or spear. But there was little possibility she would be fighting from horseback anytime soon, especially not as Mercedes’s knight.

She smiled at the thought. It was unlikely her duty to Mercedes would call for any fighting whatsoever.

Nonetheless, she picked up the sword instead. She was not as skilled as Felix with a sword, but hardly anyone was. Thankfully, she had trained and sparred with him enough that she had grown proficient with the blade. She remembered the forms well enough, although she was a bit out of practice. She ran through the first form once, to make sure she remembered it. And then again, and again, each time focusing on a different aspect until it was perfect.

Eventually, the memory of her muscles took over, allowing her mind to wander. Many years ago, a lifetime ago, Mercedes had, unbeknownst to Ingrid, watched her train for hours. They had not known one another very well then, and she had blushed and fumbled when the older girl revealed herself and called her graceful. She had been so intimidated by her then.

Mercedes was the oldest student at the monastery, already an adult. She carried herself with such poise and decorum that it seemed laughable that she would call Ingrid graceful. Halfway through adolescence and half a decade younger than her, Ingrid had felt as if she was all awkward and gangling limbs. But Mercedes had assured her that when she fought, she had the grace and skill of a dancer, yet all the more beautiful for her lethality.

As she concluded the form, she gave her blade an extra flourish, finishing with a sweeping arch in front of her instead of the lunge the form called for. She wondered if Mercedes still found her graceful and then wondered why it mattered.

Despite the cool morning, sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead, and her tunic clung to her back. Squinting at the sky, she estimated it to be nearly lunchtime. She gathered her weapons and headed inside to wash and change.

As she changed, she found she faced a similar dilemma as she had when deciding which weapon to train with. Usually, she wore simple breeches and a worn tunic to help Mercedes at the orphanage. But, as a knight, she would never attend to any duty without being well-dressed and armed.

An involuntary growl of frustration escaped her as she stared at her chest of clothing. She was thinking about this too hard. It wasn’t as if Mercedes _expected_ her to behave like a knight in all respects, did she?

But she could not shake the feeling of wrongness that came from reporting to her “lord” dressed as a common laborer. Yet, donning the full plate and mail of her armor seemed ridiculous. She scrubbed her face with both hands, torn by what seemed practical, what etiquette demanded, and what the bishop expected. It should not be a difficult decision. She was creating this conflict in her head, nothing more.

Finally, she settled on the leather doublet and leather bracers she wore for sparring. It would allow her the same liberty of movement to accomplish whatever tasks Mercedes required of her, but she was still armored. She belted her sword around her waist, ignoring the practical voice telling her she was being foolish. A knight never went anywhere unarmed. Even a trip to the market.

After checking her reflection in the mirror a final time, Ingrid hurriedly ducked outside, only to halt and narrow her eyes at the sky again. The sun was hidden by heavy, water-fat clouds, and a strong cold wind was blowing from the north. The first herald of winter. She dashed back inside for a cloak before finally crossing the yard, passing through the gardens, and climbing the stairs into the orphanage.

* * *

She found Mercedes in the first of two classrooms. She had removed her coif and veil and knelt on the floor next to a bucket. Her sleeves were pulled to her elbows, and she dunked a brush into the bucket, continued scrubbing the filthy stone floor. When she heard the scuff of Ingrid’s boots, she glanced up, a smudge of dirt dusting her cheek.

Pale eyes appraised her, looking her over from head to toe not once, but twice. Her smile widened at Ingrid’s appearance. “There is my knight.” She commented lightly, not quite teasing.

Ingrid’s face became hot, and she cleared her throat. “I have come as you ordered, my lady.” She had meant for it to be a return jest, but it ended up sound much more sincere than she had intended.

“Thank you, Ingrid.” She stood and dried her hands on her skirts.

She had come to the orphanage at Mercedes’s request nearly every day, and she had thanked her every time. Why did it make her suddenly feel too warm today?

The bishop smoothed her hair and secured her coif and veil back into place before joining the knight. Ingrid chuckled as she spied the dirt smear across the usually immaculate bishop’s cheek.

“What is it?” Mercedes brows arched.

Ingrid grinned and retrieved the kerchief she kept in her doublet. “Here.” Gently, she reached across the desks and held her chin to steady her face while she gingerly wiped the dirt from her cheek. “I thought I was the one more prone to dirt.”

“If I remember correctly, you said you were more prone to _play_ in the dirt.”

“Speaking of, what do you have for me to do today?”

“I thought it might be nice for you to join me. We so rarely leave the grounds of the orphanage.” Mercedes voice always sounded like a pure song, always so genuine. “You don’t mind being my escort, do you?” She led them through the corridors, down the stairs, and to the large double doors that opened from the gardens into the entrance hall.

“Not at all, Mercedes.” Ingrid remembered the cloak that she had grabbed. “Although, the weather looks like it is turning, so I brought your cloak.” She offered the bundle to the bishop, who accepted it with a small smile.

“You’re so thoughtful, Ingrid.” Mercedes said, wrapping the cloak around her shoulders. “Thank you.”

The praise and gratitude left the knight feeling unexpectedly too warm again, and she merely bowed her head in acknowledgment, not trusting her voice.

* * *

Following Mercedes through the town made Ingrid feel like a knight again, even if it was only in her own mind. She walked at her side, but a step behind. Her hand rested habitually on the hilt of her sword, and she ensured that she had enough room to draw her sword if necessary while still maintaining close enough proximity that she could easily slip in front of the bishop to shield her from danger. It reminded her of the many times she and Dedue had flanked his majesty, eyes always scanning for potential danger, sword-hands always ready.

It was effortless to slip into the headspace of a protector. She warily regarded anyone who came within an arm’s length of Mercedes, evaluating them as potential threats. She listened for the sound of rapid footfalls that might mean someone was rushing to attack them. She constantly scanned for anyone lurking in alleys or shadows. When they turned down a narrow street, Ingrid reflexively put her hand on Mercedes elbow, guiding her to turn the corner wide so they could not be surprised by someone lurking around the corner.

“Sorry,” She said sheepishly and released the other woman’s arm when she realized what she had done. It wasn’t as if Mercedes _actually_ needed to be protected. The war was over. There were no longer imperial spies and assassins slithering in the shadows. Barring a random attack from thieves or bandits, no one would target the two of them for an attack. Why would they? As far as anyone in this town was concerned, they were merely a bishop who was renovating an orphanage and the bishop’s ill-dressed knight.

Mercedes tilted her head. “Do not apologize for doing what your oath requires of you, Ingrid.” It almost sounded stern, almost a reproach, but the knight was certain she was hearing things. “You do whatever feels natural to you, okay?”

Grinning lopsidedly, Ingrid shrugged. “As you wish, but you can’t get upset when I tackle you to protect you from perceived attacks.” She was rewarded with one of Mercedes’s soft laughs; it sounded like the wind among the mountain peaks, its own melody and just as indescribable.

“Here,” She said finally.

Ingrid would have walked right past the door if Mercedes had not pointed it out. It was cut from the same wooden planks that the rest of the warehouse was built with. The only indication of the door was an iron handle, not even a proper knob, and a sign of sorts that bore a knotted snake. Mercedes must have noticed her bemused frown. “The Knotted Wyrm Trading House. The trading houses facilitate trade all over the Fódlan.”

It would not do for her lord to enter first, so Ingrid opened the door and ducked inside first, so if they were attacked, she alone would bear it.

She had forgotten that Mercedes’s adoptive father was a merchant. Though technically born a noble, the bishop had been raised as a commoner and considered herself as such. It was rare for them to discuss their pasts before Garreg Mach Monastery, as if their lives had begun as Blue Lions. At the monastery, they had all been students and then soldiers. It was unsettling to think of their differences.

“Good afternoon,” A ragged voice torn by age and hard-living greeted them.

The room was lit by oil lamps, and Ingrid had to blink several times for her eyes to adjust to the dim orange light. It was worse as the door closed behind Mercedes. She took a step back to allow the bishop to conduct her business.

A roughly made wooden counter separated the man that greeted them from them. What appeared to be a ledger of some sort was opened in front of him and judging by the black stains on his fingers, they had interrupted him as he scratched entries into the ledger. He was middle-aged and balding, but his smile was friendly enough, and Ingrid matched his with one of her own.

“Good afternoon, I am here to inquire after an order.”

“Well, let’s see what I can help you with, miss.” The man capped the inkwell on the counter. Reaching under the counter, he retrieved another ledger and flipped it open. “What is the name?”

“Mercedes von Martritz, sir.”

The man’s smile immediately evaporated, and Ingrid’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword in response to the abrupt shift in mood. It was palpable, as though the very air had stilled, frozen by some magic. There was no immediate danger that she sensed, but the stark change in his demeanor immediately pushed her senses into hyperawareness.

He slammed the ledger shut without even scanning it for her name or order. “Your order was undeliverable as you have been blacklisted by most respectable trading houses, Mercedes von Martritz.” He spat her name as if it left a disgusting taste in his mouth.

The muscles of her shoulders tightened, her body tensing in anticipation of a fight. Ingrid did not like how this man was addressing Mercedes, hated how his gaze traveled up and down her figure. It was ridiculous, why in the name of the goddess would Mercedes be blacklisted from anything?

The bishop was calm and unruffled by the sudden hostility, as if she had not even noticed it. “I’m sorry, but there must be a mistake. I am expecting three dozen mattresses for the new orphanage.”

“You’re going to be waiting a long time. There’s no mistake. The Knotted Wyrm does not do business with…” He paused to sneer with contempt. “Trash.”

At that, Ingrid surged forward, ready to vault the counter and pummel some manners into the man. No one spoke to Mercedes that way. Even if she had never sworn the oath to her, Ingrid would still beat the sin out of the man simply for friendship’s sake. There was no one less deserving of cruelty and disdain than her.

Mercedes extended a hand to block her advance without so much as glancing at her. She seethed at the unspoken command but halted anyway, glared at the man.

He appeared amused at Ingrid’s failed advance, which only incensed her further. “At least one bitch is on a leash.” He snorted, and she thought it was a good thing that Mercedes kept her arm extended in front of her. “Maybe if Arnaud had kept you on more of a leash, we wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”

“So, I take it Arnaud is behind this?” Mercedes voice was so steady, so even. She might as well have been asking him to join her for tea. Ingrid did not know how she managed to stay so calm while this… pig said such vile things.

“He took you in, adopted you, provided for you, and you repaid him by spitting in his face! Your own father!”

“Let us not pretend, sir.” Mercedes responded, the slightest of steel in her words. “Arnaud had no affection for me as a daughter. He only adopted me so that I might produce an heir with a crest to bring prestige to his house.”

“Let’s not pretend you ever had any value other than spreading your legs to make a crest baby.”

Blind rage drove her to leap onto the counter, to drop to one knee, to seize the front of his filthy tunic. Ingrid slammed her fist into the disgusting merchant’s face twice before he even realized what was happening. Her opposite hand fisted in the front of his tunic, twisting it to tighten her grip, holding him steady while she struck him again and again, still crouched on the counter. She struck him for every man who thought their only worth were the crest heirs they could bear. She struck him for her father, for Mercedes’s father, for every chauvinistic asshole who viewed them as objects.

“That is enough, Ingrid.” The bishop said, but the knight leapt down from the counter and slammed the man against the nearest wall, his head rolling loosely.

His eyes had glassed over, and blood leaked from his nose and mouth. The fight was won before it even started, but she slammed him against the wall again, trying to shake him from his daze. “Apologize!” She growled, and he looked at her, but his eyes did not focus. She pulled him forward to slammed him against the wall with as much force as she could muster. His head bounced off the wall as if it were a ball, his body no longer capable of resisting the assault “Apologize to her!”

“Ingrid, I said that is enough.” Mercedes repeated, using a tone that Ingrid had never heard before. It was stern and as sharp as razor’s edge. It was enough to yank Ingrid from the haze of her fury, and she grunted before releasing him. Climbing back over the counter, she reclaimed her position behind Mercedes and crossed her arms over her chest, almost sulking. That asshole was lucky. Had it been up to her, she’d have pummeled his face into ground steak.

Without the support of Ingrid holding him up, the man stumbled forward but managed to catch himself on the counter. A drop of blood and spittle dripped from his mouth onto the surface, the light of consciousness slowly returning to his eyes.

Mercedes stepped forward, lowering her face so that it was even with his. “Since you seem to be so personally acquainted with my adoptive father, I trust you can deliver a message to him.” She straightened, head held high. “Tell him that his attempts to strike back at me will never succeed. Despite his attempts to the contrary, I am my own woman. Ingrid.”

At her prompt, Ingrid opened the door. It had begun to drizzle, and despite the clouds covering the sun, she still had to blink against the brightness. Before her eyes could fully adjust, the bishop had grabbed her hand and was pulling her along. “Quickly. Trading houses often have enforcers to guard the warehouse. We need to be gone before he calls them.”

They moved swiftly, not quite running but walking quickly. Ingrid frequently glimpsed over her shoulder to spot anyone following them. This time, she walked with her arm around the other woman’s waist, preparing to place herself between her and harm as swiftly as possible. But no one followed them. No one attacked, and they arrived back at the cottage without incident.

Safely behind a locked door, Ingrid raked her fingers through her damp hair, still irate. “Unbelievable! We should write Dimitri—”

Without any warning, Mercedes grabbed her chin firmly in one hand and turned her face to look at her. When green eyes met blue, her mouth went completely dry. The bishop’s face was unreadable, the usual smile and warmth absent. Yet, it was not unkind either. It was deliberate, the slight dip of her brow gave her an expression of absolute authority. “That is the last time you will make me repeat myself.” She paused. “Is that clear, Ingrid?”

The act of being grabbed coupled with the words sent a jolt of fear and excitement that shot from her legs to her fingertips her before settling in her groin. Her thoughts suddenly became muddled to a pleasant fogginess. Mercedes had never been a push-over. Despite her sweet nature and overwhelming empathy, she was bold and direct when the situation required it. Ingrid was not surprised that the bishop had taken control so effortlessly.

She was, however, surprised by her reaction to it. Any residual anger she felt disappeared. Instantly, she was plunged into peaceful, if somewhat ashamed, acceptance. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, her fists unclenched. With such a small action and few words, Mercedes had rendered her calm and compliant. And incredibly turned on. No one had ever grabbed her in such a manner. No one had ever reprimanded her so sternly, not her parents, not even the professor. If it had occurred to her that she should be indignant instead of aroused, her face would have turned even more red than it probably was.

But it did not occur to her. Forced to meet the other woman’s gaze, Ingrid was powerless to focus on anything outside of Mercedes. She forced herself to nod.

The hand holding her chin squeezed, a warning that sent another shiver of warmth radiating from between her legs. “Ingrid?” The bishop repeated, more sternly this time.

There were only a few inches difference in height between them, but Ingrid somehow felt very small. She swallowed hard, willing her tongue to work. “Y-yes, Mercedes.”

The grip on her chin was released, and the hand cupped her cheek instead. “Good. I understand that you were angry, but that does not permit a lapse in your duty, does it?”

Tears stung Ingrid’s eyes. Her emotions had gotten the better of her. She had heard Mercedes the first time she had told her to withdraw but ignored her. “No, Mercedes. I’m sorry.” She dropped her gaze to her feet, studying the muddy toes of her boots, trying to ignore how soaked her undergarments were. While it crushed her to think that she had disappointed her friend, being held accountable for her actions was still strangely arousing.

What was wrong with her?

* * *

Mercedes’s heart ached with how dejected her friend looked, her eyes fixed on her feet, shoulders slumped, and hands clasped behind her back. She reminded herself it was for the knight’s benefit. The whole point of swearing the oath was to give her the structure and leadership she depended on, that she craved.

There were already subtle changes, Mercedes noticed. The leather doublet and sword being the first of them. More noticeably, was how focused Ingrid was as she escorted her through the town. It was intriguing how relaxed and at ease she had seemed, so different from how high-strung and easily frustrated she had been the previous week. She was the Ingrid she remembered, in the role she was born for, a true knight.

Yet, there was still an undercurrent of uncertainty, she detected. Ingrid was holding back, testing the waters of what the oath she had sworn meant exactly between the two friends. The whole endeavor would be pointless if the knight felt she was walking a balancing act, afraid to tip too far into either the realm of friend or knight. Mercedes had merely rectified that by tipping the balance for her, showing her that there was no shying from the oath they had sworn.

“You are never more stunning than when you are yourself, Ingrid. And you are never more yourself than when you are a knight.” The tips of Ingrid’s ears burned bright red, and Mercedes took a deep breath and folded her hands in front of her. “But if at any point you don’t want to do this, you can tell me. And we can go back to how we were before.”

At that, Ingrid looked up sharply and shook her head vehemently. “No, Mercedes. I want this. Unless you don’t. I mean, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You could never be a burden to me. You are my dearest friend, and I feel very fortunate that I can help you.” Ingrid smiled broadly, and it caused Mercedes’s heart to stumble. “I also feel very safe with my own knight.” She admitted. She knew Ingrid would always protect her, always had her back. They had fought in a hundred battles before, side by side, even back to back.

But it was different now. During their brief trip into town, Ingrid’s only concern had been Mercedes’s well-being. It was evident in the way she gingerly steered the bishop around puddles and other small obstacles in the street. The way her hand never strayed far from the hilt of her sword, and her eyes were never still as she seemed to look everywhere at once. The security of being someone’s—no, Ingrid’s— sole focus was like being pulled into the embrace of the goddess. It was unlike any comfort she had experienced before.

The knight’s smile faded, and her cheeks reddened again. “I really am sorry, Mercedes.” Ingrid shifted her weight and cast her gaze back at her feet. “I just… when he said that about you. I could not allow it. I couldn’t. All our lives, we have been treated like breeding sows, our only worth being the children we may bear.” As her words grew in conviction, she stopped shuffling and looked up. Her jade eyes sparkled brilliantly with unshed tears. Her fists and jaw clenched. “And when we refuse to comply, we no longer have value, and we are discarded.

"You are the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met, Mercie. You have saved hundreds, probably even thousands of lives on the battlefield. And it never mattered what side they were on, friend, enemy. You never let anyone suffer because you are the best person I know. But they don’t see that, because all they see is your goddess-forsaken crest. And I couldn’t—” She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I won’t let one more person do that to you. Or to me.”

Tears welled up in Mercedes’s eyes. She had always been adept at concealing her hurt when it came to her so-called family. But the knight’s conviction, and her own empathy was her undoing. “No,” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her friend and pulled her close. “We won’t let them.” Ingrid buried her face in her chest, and a choked half-sob escaped her. Almost immediately, she felt the knight seize control of her breathing, the tears suppressed by a measured breathing exercise. Always the strong knight, Mercedes thought sadly.

They stood that way for a long time. Mercedes’s arms were wrapped around Ingrid’s shoulders, her right hand snaked upwards to play with the short hairs at the base of her skull. The knight reached behind the bishop, holding her wrist in the opposite hand, trapping her in the embrace. Her voice was muffled against the other woman’s chest when she finally spoke again. “Do you ever think that maybe…” The words were shaky, tentative. “We were on the wrong side?”

“I…” Countless nights had been sleepless, plagued by doubt and nightmares. After six years of war and violence and loss, it was the uncertainty that troubled her sleep the most. “Sometimes. I wonder if Edelgard could have managed it.” There was only pain down this path, she knew. No good could come from second-guessing the past. Then why did she keep doing it? She released the knight from her embrace, and before she could pull away, she succumbed to the temptation to kiss the crown of her head so tenderly she doubted if her friend even felt it. “I’ll make us some tea. Why don’t you go change into some dry clothes?”

* * *

While her clothes were damp from the light rain, her undergarments were soaked for a different reason, and Ingrid was grateful for the opportunity to change. She lightly touched her chin where Mercedes had grabbed her, felt a pleasurable twinge as she replayed the memory in her mind, but it was accompanied by a flush of shame at thinking of her friend in _that way_. Was she some sort of pervert?

Quickly, she dried herself and changed.

Back in her student days, she had experienced something similar whenever Professor Manuela told her to do something in class: a tightening in her gut, a lightening of her chest, and a deliciously heady feeling, like being one drink short of drunk. Or whenever Catherine chided her whenever her focus strayed while they trained. It was a mixture of giddiness and guilt, and Ingrid had always been conflicted.

She never wanted to disappoint either woman, but at the same time, it was exhilarating. It made her feel oddly cared for, that they were concerned enough to correct her. When she had been a student, it had been easy enough to ignore. But there was no disregarding the effect Mercedes had on her, and if she thought about it too hard, she’d have to change again.

The bishop was already filling two teacups when Ingrid finally bounded down the stairs and rejoined her. She took her usual seat at the table across from her, wrapped both hands around the cup to warm her fingers. The steam had a rich sharpness to it that seemed to cool her nose and the back of her throat as she breathed it in. Mint, she smiled, her favorite.

“I suppose I should explain.” Mercedes placed the kettle on the kitchen table to her right and sat.

“You don’t have to explain anything, if you don’t want.” Ingrid said quickly, not wanting her to feel as if she owed her anything at all.

“No, I believe I do. I am sure you gathered that Arnaud is my adoptive father. He is quite the successful merchant. He is influential and powerful. All he needs to claim nobility is an heir with a crest.” It was obvious that Mercedes’s face was kept was carefully expressionless. At Ingrid’s nod, she continued. “He accepted my decision to walk my own path in life about as well as your own did. He was furious. He swore that he would ruin me. If I would not marry who he wanted me to, he would ensure that no one else would have me. Some of the lies he has spread have already reached me. It was part of the reason I left Fhirdiad.” She paused to sip her tea.

Blowing gently into the steam, Ingrid sipped her own tea. Mercedes had even added a spoonful of honey to her tea, knowing it was what she preferred to sugar. It was such a considerate gesture, but that was simply who she was. A weight settled over her heart. The only time Mercedes had thought of herself, and her adoptive father had threatened to rob her of any potential success or happiness. Anyone who would believe his lies was not worthy of the bishop. “Why didn’t you tell me, Mercie?”

Mercedes shoulders rose and fell nonchalantly. “It didn’t matter. I do not care what others think of me, and I certainly don’t care if I’m welcome in the upper circles of society.” She paused to drink and, Ingrid suspected, think. “I spent most of my life being looked down on as lowborn. I am a commoner, regardless of the status afforded me as one of his majesty’s inner circle. I never wanted the status, so it does not harm me to lose it.”

Guilt stung, and Ingrid winced involuntarily. The daughter of a noble house, even a poorer one, afforded her a great deal of protection and prestige. No one had ever looked down at her with disdain or ostracized her for the circumstances of her birth. She had never gone hungry, never fretted for basic necessities of survival. As loathe as she was to admit it, renouncing her title and claim on House Galatea had been terrifying. She no longer had the buffer of protection a title provided. She was a nobody, and she was ashamed of herself for thinking so.

“He found a way to strike at me more directly. I am not surprised he knows where I am and what I’m doing. He trades in favors and barters in information almost as much as he does goods and luxuries.” Mercedes shook her head, dusty blond bangs falling into her eyes. She brushed them aside with slender fingers. “He can keep me from getting the orphanage running if he blocks my access to supplies. I wish I could say I can’t believe he’s willing to harm innocent children to do so. He is doing this to hurt me and does not care who else he hurts in the process.”

“But I don’t understand.” Ingrid set her cup down on its saucer. “How can he keep you from getting the supplies you order? You paid a merchant for it, didn’t you?”

“Trading Houses make their money in three ways. Occasionally, they do some selling directly. More often, merchants rely on trading houses to supply them.” Mercedes explained. “Especially for specialty, bulk, or unusual goods. Last, they facilitate trade across Fódlan through warehouses scattered across the continent. Most trading houses have warehouses in all major and port cities, so large orders and requests can be easily fulfilled, and they take a cut of the merchant’s profits.”

“Let me see if I understand. You bought twenty mattresses from the merchant, but what merchant has twenty mattresses on hand?” Ingrid was beginning to piece it together. “So, he places an order through a trading house, which arranges for the large order to be filled and delivered to the correct city? Why would this son of a bi—” She stopped short when Mercedes arched both of her brows. “Why would this prick at the Knotted Wyrm block your order for Arnaud’s sake?”

“I told you Arnaud is influential. Many trading houses would be afraid to go against him, afraid they’d lose business. But I don’t think the proprietor of the Knotted Wyrm’s is cooperating out of fear or obligation.” Mercedes said thoughtfully. “His reaction was far too personal, so I believe him to be a close friend or even perhaps cousin or kin to Arnaud.”

“How do we fight him?” Ingrid asked. She might not know much about trade, but she knew strategy. Offense could be an effective defense.

“We don’t.” The bishop smiled. “We find a way to work around him.”

“But—”

“Please, Ingrid.” She reached across the table and rested her fingertips on the knight’s wrist. “Let me fight this in my own way.”

Intuitively, she knew this request came from her friend and not her lord. Reluctantly, Ingrid nodded and placed her opposite hand on Mercedes’s. “Okay. Your way.”

“Good girl.” The simple praise and faint smile were more of a reward than any other Ingrid had ever received, and it caused warmth to blossom and spread in her breast.

Faced with her smile, the second wall collapsed.


	3. The Third Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bishop watched her wordlessly, expression indecipherable save for something akin to curiosity in her gaze. Her lips parted slightly as Ingrid’s knuckles inadvertently brushed over her collarbone as she withdrew her hands. For once, she was not nervous under the intensity of Mercedes’s gaze. Their eyes met, and she did not feel compelled to drop her own in deference. She felt as though she could be more than content to stare at the other woman for all eternity, to memorize every curve and contour, to commit the pattern and shards of ice and blue in her eyes to memory. In this moment, she was neither knight nor friend. She was something… else, but she did not know what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to put a strong warning on this chapter because there is a scene of violence/death that triggers a post traumatic stress response and panic attack in a character. 
> 
> Second, I want to thank everyone for their support! I had no idea this would be so well received given the pairing is pretty under-represented, so thank you!
> 
> Third, Happy New Year!

Fighting in her own way did not involve fighting at all, to Ingrid’s frustration. Over the following weeks, Mercedes cleverly found ways to work around Arnaud’s sabotage. She found trading houses in neighboring villages too insignificant to be influenced by him. She hired farmers and their wagons to fetch her purchases. She switched between small trading houses in different villages so Arnaud could not easily track her business. It was costly to have to hire the farmers to fetch the deliveries, but luckily the first frost had frozen the ground, and they were eager to earn a few coins in their slow months.

With the first group of orphans set to arrive from Fhirdiad by the end of the Ethereal Moon, everything appeared to be on track once again. They had received a letter from the professor, thanking them for their hard work and informing them that he would be sending four hand-picked sisters and brothers from the Church to help manage the day-to-day business of caring for several dozen children, and a head cook, but that they would be responsible for hiring one or two locals to help him.

There were still many little things that needed to be completed, details to be taken care of before the orphans arrived, and their routine continued much as it had before. The small differences were enough to completely cure Ingrid of her restlessness and irritability. She felt peaceful, calm. Her confidence, which she had not even realized was floundering, was restored. Once again, she felt capable and certain of herself. She marveled at the dramatic changes that resulted from those small adaptations of their routine.

She still spent the mornings training, but now she varied her regimen by only training with the lance twice a week, and with the sword and close-quarters weapons most frequently. She had even picked up knives, something she had never really used before. They were tricky, and she had written Felix to send her some books on knife-fighting theory. Until the books arrived, she experimented with different grips and moves, practiced throwing them at a barrel she had turned into a makeshift target.

When she changed after training, it was always into the leather doublet and bracers if she was working around the orphanage. If they ventured into town on errands, she elected heavier armor, especially now that she had made enemies of at least one trading house owner. She wore gambeson and over it a leather brigandine. It was still a far cry from the plate she was accustomed to, but it was more practical for her purposes while still being sturdy enough to protect her. And regardless of whether she spent her afternoon around the orphanage grounds or in town, her sword hung sheathed from her belt at her hip.

She had left it in the cottage only once, thinking it would only get in the way as she trudged up and down ladders all afternoon, cleaning the gutters of the orphanage. Mercedes had frowned at its absence and sent her back to the cottage. When a chagrined Ingrid returned with the sword, the bishop had told her that if she left the cottage, her sword was always to either be in her hand or at her hip, without exception. It was the first of several “rules” that Mercedes had given her knight.

Swearing an oath to her friend had seemed a little foolish at first, as if she were trying to trick herself into being content by pretending to be her knight, but there was nothing pretend about the oaths they had sworn. Most of the time, they acted as they always had, as two dear friends. The reminders of their evolving relationship were stark and abrupt, but not unpleasant.

Sometimes, it was merely how the bishop said her name, it almost sounding like a warning. Other times, it was a suggestion that Ingrid intuitively knew was a command. It was in the silence that followed when Ingrid nodded or shook her head in response to a question, pointed and expectant until she remembered to respond verbally. When she became complacent, when her attention faltered or she lost herself to thought, it was in the way Mercedes took hold of her chin and turned her face towards her when she wanted her focus. It was in the praise she gave her, usually two simple words that Ingrid had begun to crave hearing.

If she were honest with herself, and she could hardly bear to be, she enjoyed the reminders. Some left her cheeks flushed and undergarments shamefully wet. Others made her feel secure, useful, cared for, and wanted. For the first time, she felt as though she was a true knight, the one she had always hoped she would be ever since she was a child. It was something she had yet to puzzle out. There had been a certain satisfaction in being Dimitri’s knight, but it was nothing like the fulfillment she felt in Mercedes’s service.

“Ingrid!”

The warning of her name pulled her from her thoughts. “Hmm? I mean, yes, Mercedes?” She glimpsed down at her friend, who was on her hands and knees, sleeves of her blouse pushed up to her elbows and a scrub brush in one hand. They had been scrubbing the floors in the dining hall for the entire afternoon, years of neglect caking dust and grime to the floorboards.

“Could you slide the bucket to me please?” She waved the brush at the pail of soapy water by her feet. “Are you well? You’re not usually so prone to losing yourself to thought.”

Wincing, Ingrid lifted the bucket with one hand, her own scrub brush in the opposite, and carried it to the bishop. “I’m sorry, Mercie, I just…” She sighed as though she were deflating, uncertain how to explain it when she did not thoroughly understand it herself. “Being your knight is…” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, unsure how to finish the sentence she had started.

Mercedes sat back on her heels, placing her brush to float in the bucket she placed next to her. Even scrubbing floors, she still managed to appear so elegant. “Any time you are uncomfortable, I want you to tell me. And if you decide it isn’t what you want, that is okay. The purpose of this oath is to help you, and if it is doing harm…” She trailed off, her eyes distant, as if wounded by the possibility. “Then it is not helping. Your well-being is all that I care about, Ingrid.”

“No, no, no,” She raked her fingers through her short hair, scratching her scalp, the heels of her palms covering her eyes. “That is the exact opposite of what I intended.” She knelt in front of her friend, abandoning her brush in the same bucket, and taking Mercedes’s hands in her own. A small smile tugged on her lips when she realized their hands were both slick with soap. She ran her thumb over the back of her hand anyway. “I have been distracted because… I think because I am happy.”

“You think?”

“I know. Happy and grateful and… I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.” Mercedes squeezed her hands, encouraging her to continue. She studied the floor beside her, worn smooth by the feet of countless students and teachers, still damp but now clean. “I have felt more like a knight these past few weeks than I _ever_ did in the service of his majesty. I am still working out why that may be. Right now, it is a mystery.” She shrugged as if to dismiss the matter as unimportant. “I promise to tell you if I am ever uncomfortable, but I trust you. I know you’d never harm me, and…” She summoned the courage to meet her eyes. “I… it’s silly.” She dropped her eyes back to the floor, ears and cheeks burning.

Fingertips under her chin gently guided her eyes to meet those of pale blue once again. “Nothing you could ever say or do would make me think less of you. I give you my word.”

Her word was not necessary for she had learned to trust the bishop’s sincerity years ago. “I…” She huffed, more frustrated with herself for being so obviously flustered. “I feel safe with you, okay?” She blurted in a rush, wishing she could look away, but the fingertips kept their gazes locked.

The smile that graced Mercedes’s lips was genuine, not mocking. “There is nothing silly about wanting to feel safe.”

“I’m a knight! I should be making you feel safe.” Ingrid insisted, feeling somewhat petulant, now feeling foolish for making such a big deal out of it.

“I have never been so certain of my safety as I am when I am in your company.” She said as if confessing a mortal sin, and Ingrid’s heart hummed rapidly in her throat. The bishop dropped her hands to her lap where she dried them of any remaining suds and dampness on her skirt. “It’s getting late. We should start dinner. We can finish this tomorrow.” She stood, smoothing her skirts.

There was a sudden jolt of loss at her withdrawal, and Ingrid trapped a whine in her throat before it could pass her lips. Dutifully, she followed suit, slapping the dust from the knees of her trousers.

While Mercedes moved their cleaning supplies from the middle of the floor, Ingrid fetched her cloak, but she stopped short of presenting it to her. Impulsively, she shook out the garment, holding it up with both hands. “May I?” Granted permission by a brisk nod, Ingrid first stepped behind her, wrapping her in the heavy woolen cloak, smoothing it flat against her shoulders with her palms. Circling to stand in front of her again, she pulled the fabric together at her neck to fasten it with the silver broach.

She almost faltered when Mercedes tilted her head back, exposing her slender neck to make it easier for her to fasten. Her skin was like porcelain, so flawless, and smooth, Ingrid imagined. She could see the bob of her throat as she swallowed, the steady pulse of her carotid visible. She forced herself to recover and managed to fasten it without fumbling too clumsily. With a gentle tug, she finished by pulling the open edges closed over her front to shield her from the cold.

The bishop watched her wordlessly, expression indecipherable save for something akin to curiosity in her gaze. Her lips parted slightly as Ingrid’s knuckles inadvertently brushed over her collarbone as she withdrew her hands. For once, she was not nervous under the intensity of Mercedes’s gaze. Their eyes met, and she did not feel compelled to drop her own in deference. She felt as though she could be more than content to stare at the other woman for all eternity, to memorize every curve and contour, to commit the pattern and shards of ice and blue in her eyes to memory. In this moment, she was neither knight nor friend. She was something… else, but she did not know what.

“Escort me to my estate, brave knight?” Mercedes breathed the request, clearly meant as a jest yet without its usual lightness.

She hesitated before bowing deeply. “I would be honored, my lady.” Formally, she offered her arm, just as knights of court did when they escorted nobility into the throne room.

Mercedes smiled faintly as she slipped her hand into the crook of her elbow, allowing her knight to lead her out a side door and into the snowy evening.

The sky was mottled gray velvet, contrasting sharply with the pristine white blanket of freshly fallen snow. Fat snowflakes were still falling and gave no indication of slowing. The first true snowfall of winter. They were silent except for the crunch of snow beneath their feet as they crossed the courtyard towards their cottage. Night was descending quickly, and it would be dark soon. For now, it was still and peaceful, and with Mercedes’s warmth pressed against her side, she was in no hurry to reach the cottage.

“I am a bishop, not a lady.” Mercedes said finally, when the shape of their home broke through the increasingly heavy snowfall.

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“I am a bishop, and the correct way to address a bishop is ‘your grace.’” She stopped and still holding the knight’s arm, tugged her to a stop as well. Her warm smile betrayed the deadpan of her voice. “Ingrid,” Her smile faded, but her hand tightened around Ingrid’s forearm. “Thank you. For coming with me. For helping with the orphanage, for trusting me with your oath. I… don’t know where I would be without you beside me.”

Opening her mouth to respond, Ingrid wavered. Mercedes’s earnestness was so familiar. It stirred a memory from many years ago, one that she shoved deep to a neglected corner of her mind. It became too similar. It reminded her too starkly of another winter afternoon. Of another nose and cheeks bitten pink by the cold. Of other eyelashes frosted with snowflakes. Of the same ache in her breast, as if she were missing something, but she could not remember what. She forced the memory away by pulling back and swallowing hard, missing the flash of disappointment and concern that crossed the other woman’s face.

Covering the break in her composure with what she hoped was a charming smile, she bowed again. Her hair had grown out just long enough that it fell in her eyes as she bowed. “It has been my honor to be at your side, and at your side is where I will remain, so long as you’ll have me, _your grace._ ” She said, drawing out the title dramatically. Her grin was broad, a little lopsided, and a rarity for the knight.

Despite herself, Mercedes found herself smiling back. It was obvious something dark passed her thoughts, it had crossed her features as obvious as a shadow, but she had quickly hidden it beneath her irresistible impish smile. Ingrid probably had no hint how charming she was, with tousled wheat blonde hair falling in her eyes and white teeth revealed by an askew smile. It was even less likely she was aware that her words bordered on flirting.

Her poor, sweet, simple knight…

Shaking her head, she took the other woman’s arm again, steering her towards the cottage. “You are fortunate that I do believe I’ll keep you,” She replied lightly. “But if you keep calling me ‘your grace’ I may start to insist on it. It is only appropriate you show your lord the appropriate respect, after all.”

Ingrid opened the door to cottage, held it open for her, and indicated for her to enter first with an overstated bow and a dramatic flourish. Her cheeks were pink from either cold or embarrassment. “If it pleases, your grace.”

* * *

The streets of Enbarr were too narrow for her horse, so Ingrid had dismounted in the square after Mercedes had slain the Death Knight. The wail of her anguish as she killed her own brother still weighed in her breast, as if she could still hear it over the shriek of blades and clatter of armor.

Somehow, she had become separated from the rest of her comrades, but so far, the nameless Imperial troops had not been a challenge. Her mind detached as she settled into the reflex of battle. Turn, dodge, thrust. The memory of every training was burned into her muscles, and she reacted to every shift of the enemy’s weight, the subtlest dip of their blade, the hitch in their breath, without registering it. Thought was not necessary. Instinct and training were far more reliable in battle. 

She had left her lance with her mount, and even if she was not as proficient as Felix or the Professor with a sword, she was still more than a match for the common Imperial soldiers and even most of their officers. She rammed the pommel of her sword into the nose of her last opponent, feeling it collapse with a sickening crunch. Before the soldier could stumble back, she spun the sword around in her hand and drove the tip of her blade into his throat, the hot spray of blood cooling instantly as it splattered her cheeks and lips. Stubborn muscle and flesh clung to the steel, and she wrenched it free with a twist.

They were supposed to rendezvous outside of the palace. Capitol. Whatever the Empire called it. Ingrid glimpsed to her left and right, trying to obtain her bearings. The city was too clean, too uniform. Every street paved with the same tan cobbles, every building the same drab stone, the same height. Every courtyard pristinely manicured and landscaped. A light snow had begun to fall, but it had been churned to a bloody slush by the thunder of boots and press of bodies. The sky was grimly overcast overhead, clouds swollen with snow that threatened to blanket them by nightfall. They would have to hurry if they wanted to end this without the added complication of a winter storm.

Thought was almost Ingrid’s undoing as she turned the corner, the alleyway broadening but blocked by one of Edelgard’s closest confidantes and generals.

But the general seemed almost as surprised to see her as Ingrid was. She dropped into a defensive position, lifting her blade to block a blow that never fell. Her tongue suddenly felt as dry and useless as cotton, but she still managed to croak. “Dorothea.”

“Ingrid.” The singer’s face fell but was almost immediately schooled back into steel. But it was too late, she had already seen the dismay etched into every contour and line of her face. “If it is our destiny to kill each other then I cannot— will not— respect the goddess.” She held up her sword, readying for Ingrid’s attack.

Dorothea had determined the nature of their standoff, glaring and freezing her words to ice. There would be no opportunity for discourse, no chance to solve this without blood. The singer had always been piss-poor swordsman. Why she had not chosen the magical arts which she was clearly better suited for had always been a mystery. There was only one way this would end, and Ingrid closed off her mind again, ignoring the agony in eyes an even deeper green than her own.

She silenced the litany of memories of peaceful monastery moments of Dorothea teasing her, flirting just to make her blush, delighting in how red she could make Ingrid’s cheeks. How she had protectively denounced that awful suitor her father had proposed, going so far as enlisting the professor in ensuring that Ingrid was protected from such a vile and unworthy man. How Dorothea’s voice sounded like sunlight breaking through the trees as she sang quietly in the gardens, believing herself to be alone. How her fingers danced across her eyelids and lips as she painted makeup against flushed skin.

Dorothea had been her closest friend outside of the House of Blue Lions, perhaps her only friend. Charming Dorothea had her pick of any companion, friend or lover, but she often chose Ingrid. She was beautiful and funny and elegant and socially adept in a way that Ingrid could never hope to be. But more than all those things, she was truly kind, and often the first person that Ingrid ran to whenever she needed vent and rip up another one of her father’s letters.

The knight closed her mind off to such memories and took a step forward, mindful of the slick ice freezing the street beneath her. “Your death is my duty.”

A fissure appeared in the singer’s impassive expression, suddenly becoming the girl who had meant so much to her, years ago. It was almost enough to make her falter. “Ingrid, _please_ , you must see he is a madman. You are so much better than this!” Ingrid forced herself not to hear the desperation, the plea, the human appeal by reciting her knight’s oath over and over again, like a mantra. The crack disappeared, but Dorothea could not mask the hurt haunting her eyes. “My only request is that if you win, you’ll at least have the decency to kill me quickly.”

Ingrid could not acknowledge that request without allowing thoughts to slip back into her mind, so she attacked with a overhead arc that staggered the other woman with its force when she blocked it.

The fight did not last long, probably a minute at most. But it seemed to stretch on as long as an entire battle, draining Ingrid of energy, sapping her of strength until she spotted an opening in Dorothea’s defense and without hesitation, plunged her blade in between her ribs, through the chest wall, driving it through muscle and lung and heart. It had been a risky gambit. Had the wound proved not to be almost immediately fatal, Ingrid would have had a difficult time freeing her blade in time to counter another strike. No death was completely instantaneous, but this one had been thankfully, mercifully, close.

Releasing the hilt of her sword, she let the singer’s body collapse into the snow with her sword protruding from between her ribs, chocolate waves fanning out in a halo around her head in the snow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and tasted iron. Planting her boot on Dorothea’s chest, she pulled her sword free with a hefty yank. It came free with a sucking wheeze, blood splattering the toes of her boots and the white snow.

Dorothea’s eyes were still open. Dull, sightless. Snowflakes dusted her lashes. The color had not yet drained from her nose and cheeks, still frosted pink by the cold.

Ingrid almost walked away, but the faint glitter in the snow caught her attention. Her knee audibly crushed the snow as she dropped, dusting the gathering flakes away from the singer’s motionless hand. There, on her left hand, fourth finger just below her knuckle, was a ring. The ring Ingrid had gifted her six years ago, while blushing and stumbling through words of gratitude.

Thoughts returned, and worse feelings as Ingrid ran her thumb over the ring, over the limp fingers quickly cooling without the pump of blood to warm them. She broke.

She threw her head back, an inhuman shriek escaping her as if ripped from her lungs. A primal scream of rage and grief, the keening wail she had heard countless times during this Goddess-forsaken war. She had not thought herself capable of such a sound, a haunting howl of pure feeling that was more animal than human.

* * *

Mercedes was not immediately aware of what had woken her until the second wail shattered the silence.

She had spent the entire night futilely chasing sleep. She dozed in fitful spells only to wake a short time later. It was like that some nights, no doubt a byproduct from the war when she slept in the healing tents, afraid to sleep too soundly lest one of her patients need her, that she may miss a cry for assistance. There were those whose injuries were past even her healing magic. The best she could offer them was an ease to their suffering and comfort in their final moments. No one should have to die afraid and alone, surrounded by the stink of blood and fetid wounds.

Sometimes when she woke, that smell still clotted in her nostrils, as if the reek of living corpses was never far away.

This time though, there was only the lingering aroma of the stew they had for dinner and faint, pleasant smell of clean sheets and warm blankets. She pulled the covers tighter around her shoulders and sighed. Usually, when she had a restless night, she sneaked downstairs to brew a cup of chamomile tea to aid her sleep, but that would require her to leave the warmth of her bed, and on this cold night, it was not a sacrifice she was willing to make.

When the second wail came, Mercedes shivered, chilled to her core by the raw anguish of the sound. It was not a sound one ever forgot, a common sound of the battlefield where mothers and fathers cradled the lifeless bodies of their babies, where lovers bent over the broken corpses of their partners, where sisters and brothers…

The second floor of the cottage was split into two rooms by a thin wall and a flimsy door. It was just enough to separate the two bedrooms and give an illusion of privacy, but it was not the first time she had been woken by one of Ingrid’s nightmares. The knight often whimpered and cried in her sleep, but this was the first time she had… howled in such a way.

Throwing the blankets back, she gritted her teeth against the cold. Through the window, she saw that the snow was still falling. She inhaled sharply at the cold of the wooden floor beneath her bare feet, and she hesitated. It almost felt like an intrusion, an invasion of the other woman’s privacy to disturb her grief, even if it occurred in her sleep. But there was also fear in her cry, and she could not let her Ingrid suffer, at least not alone.

Quietly, as not to startle her awake, she eased the door separating their rooms open.

Ingrid thrashed violently in her bed, fighting an enemy that wasn’t there. Somehow, she had tangled herself completely in her blankets. In the dim light, Mercedes could see her struggle to free her dominant hand from the grip of her blanket. She quickly closed the distance to the bed, hoping to ease the other gently from her nightmare, and called out to her. “Ingrid, it’s just a dream.” The knight cried out again, her words unintelligible, but the sentiment clear: a mixture of fear and pain. No, not pain. Anguish. She stilled as though perhaps she had heard Mercedes, but lashed out suddenly, throwing her free hand aside with such force that it struck the oil lamp on her bedside table, sending it careening to shatter to the floor.

“Ingrid, I am here. You are safe.” Mercedes tried again, this time more urgently, before Ingrid truly injured herself. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently put a hand on her shoulder.

It had been an ill-advised action, and Ingrid blindly swung at her with a fist. Mercedes felt the movement of the air split next to her cheek as she narrowly avoided the blow. When she struck out again, she grabbed her wrist and held it firmly. “Ingrid!” She tried again, this time sternly. Finally, in the dark, she saw the whites of the knight’s eyes as she frantically glanced around before finally settling on her, but not yet seeing her.

She tried to yank her wrist free, still fighting the phantoms of her nightmare. Mercedes tightened her grip. “Ingrid, it is Mercedes. It’s me, my sweet knight. Tell me who I am. Who am I, Ingrid?”

“Mercedes.” She whispered, stilling. She blinked rapidly to draw Mercedes into focus. “You are my... my… lord.”

“Good girl.” She released her wrist as she felt the knight relax and return to awareness. She tugged the blankets down, freeing her, and then stroked her forehead as she pushed herself to sit up. “Good girl. It was just a nightmare.” The pale moonlight sneaking through the window cast just enough light for her to see green eyes fill and sparkle with tears.

“It wasn’t though.” Her breath trembled. “It was a memory. I killed her. Goddess I—” Her breath clotted in her throat, choking off into a sob. Crossing her arms over her stomach, she drew her knees up and curled in on herself, the same tortured cry that had woken Mercedes escaping her once again. “I killed her. I killed her.”

In some respects, there was never any mystery how Ingrid felt. Frustration, impatience, and anger were easily read in the narrowing of her eyes, the clench of her jaw, the tensing of her shoulders, the white knuckles of her fists. Her speech became clipped, words sharp. The professor lectured her on more than one occasion about her inability to mask those emotions, that broadcasting her frustration opened a door to her enemies. But his coaching had been fruitless; those emotions were as easily read today as they had been nearly ten years ago.

On the other hand, she was a master of hiding her pain, whether physical or emotional. During the war, Sylvain had once dragged Ingrid to the tent where Mercedes had been healing the wounded. Three of her fingers had been broken in the battle three days prior, and stubbornly, she had continued to tend to her duties despite the pain she must have felt. She had not even winced when she had palpated the breaks, feeling the fractures beneath the skin. At least she had the grace to appear abashed when Mercedes chastised her about ever ignoring an injury again.

When it came to emotional pain, she had mastered the art of stoicism and misdirection. Meticulous breathing exercises kept tears at bay. Anger camouflaged hurt. Even when her father had effectively disowned her, Ingrid had accepted it with nothing more than a resigned shrug. Knights were strong, and to show pain was weakness. No doubt, she saw it as a personal failing, as if it somehow made her less of a knight to admit hurt.

To see her sweet knight overwhelmed by agony to such a degree she could not even attempt to conceal it, broke Mercedes’s heart. She climbed onto the bed, folded her legs under her and wrapped her arms around Ingrid, covering her back with her body. Tears pricked her eyes as Ingrid wept, knowing this was a pain she was powerless to heal. Her sobs were the heavy, crippling sobs that seemed as though they could tear a body asunder with their force, as if the tears were made of ice. All Mercedes could do was rock her gently, hope some part of her heard the words of comfort and love she murmured into her hair as she pressed her lips to the crown of her head.

Eventually, the sobs gave way to ragged, rapid breaths, and she began repeating herself again. The same words. “I killed her. I killed her.” While she did not know for certain who “her” was, Mercedes had a solid guess that Ingrid was referring to Dorothea. It had been obvious to everyone but Ingrid that Dorothea was utterly enamored with the knight, and Ingrid ignorantly infatuated with her in turn. She had stumbled across the singer’s body on the streets of Enbarr, half buried by falling snow, and she was the only person whose death could so burden her knight. “Goddess, I killed her.” The words grew higher as they skirted hysteria. “We were on the wrong side. I knew it was wrong, I knew we were wrong. We should have left. Why didn’t we leave? I killed her because I’m a fucking coward.”

She was gasping as if desperate for air, and Mercedes knew she had to put an end to this now. Reluctantly, she released her from her embrace and moved so she knelt beside her, angling to face her. Ingrid gave no indication that she had even realized Mercedes had moved, arms still wrapped around her middle, knees brought to her chest. Gingerly, she took her face in both hands, framing her cheeks and wiping tears with her thumbs.

Even in the dim light, she could see her cheeks were mottled, her red-rimmed eyes wild and darting like an injured animal. Her face was wet with tears, breath gasping, and short hair disheveled. “Ingrid,” She tried tenderly at first, hoping she could coax her to calm.

“Why… didn’t… we… leave?” The words were punctuated by panicked gasps, and Mercedes inwardly flinched. It was the same question she had asked herself a thousand times, but it hurt so much more from the lips of her dearest friend. Why had she stayed? She told herself that her allegiance was to the Church and not Dimitri but did that really even matter? She saw who Dimitri had become, the truth to his character, a man consumed by hate and wrath. A man so entitled to happiness that he scorched the very earth whenever life did not afford him that.

“Why?” Ingrid pleaded, begged her for an answer she did not have.

“Ingrid,” She refocused and said more firmly. “You’re hyperventilating, I need to you to breath with me, can you do that for me?”

“I kill- killed her because I was a coward.”

“Ingrid, listen to me. I will not repeat myself.” As if hearing her for the first time, as if just realizing Mercedes knelt beside her, cradling her face, Ingrid snapped her attention to her, gave the smallest of nods. “Good, now breathe with me.” Mercedes took a deep breath and held it; Ingrid attempted to emulate her but failed, panic convincing her that she could not breathe. “No, try again. Deep breath in, good, hold it. You’re doing so well for me, Ingrid. Let it out. Another deep breath in.”

Gradually, her breathing steadied, and Ingrid returned to herself, jade eyes focusing so intensely on Mercedes’s face as if she could not bear to see anything else in that moment.

* * *

As she caught her breath, the mindless panic and anguish gave way to an exhausted, sad ache. In her dream, she had screamed and mourned the singer. In real life, she had stroked her thumb over the ring once before standing and quickly walking away, refusing to acknowledge that her heart felt on the verge of shattering, abandoning her grief with the body of her friend. But it did not matter. Not now. Dorothea was dead. Ingrid had fought for the Kingdom and crest system, the Church, out of a misguided notion of duty. No amount of crying and wailing would ever change that. There was no changing what was done.

A deep resigned sadness covered her like a heavy woolen blanket. “Mercie…” She whimpered plaintively, mentally cursed herself for sounding so pathetic. She was a knight, she was Mercedes’s knight. Blinking to clear her eyes, she inhaled deeply and straightened, thrusting her shoulders back, steeling herself to show her lord that she was okay now, that the moment of weakness had passed.

Pale blue eyes darkened, and Mercedes frowned. “Stop.” She said sharply, so sharply that she almost sounded angry.

Ingrid froze, the familiar shudder of cold apprehension that struck her when faced with the other woman’s displeasure. Only this time, she was also bewildered at what she had done to earn her disapproval. “I don’t know—”

“Stop,” Mercedes commanded again, and Ingrid worried her lower lip between her teeth, realizing that she had repeated herself. “You do not have to be strong all the time, not for me. Do not hide your pain from me. Do not pretend to be okay when you are not. It is not a weakness to have feelings, my girl.” The bishop now held her chin in one hand, the way she did whenever she wanted Ingrid to pay attention. The opposite hand combed through her hair, smoothing it.

It was impossible not to relax at least a little bit under such gentle ministrations, and Ingrid unconsciously tilted her head into the fingers in her hair. “I am a knight,” She protested but the fingers holding her chin tightened.

“You are _my_ knight.”

The conviction of such primal possessiveness sent a warm shudder through her that began in her chest and blossomed in her reddened cheeks. Even now, she could make Ingrid feel as if her blood had turned to molten gold, as if she were basking in the smile of the sun. No one had ever claimed her before, referred to her as _theirs_ , aside from a few presumptuous suitors who she had set straight with icy words and, occasionally, a well-placed kick. But far from bristling at Mercedes’s proclamation, Ingrid only felt a profound yearning to indeed be hers, whatever that meant. Even though she did not know what it meant, it felt right in a way that nothing quite had before. Correct. She was _hers_.

“I’m supposed to protect you.” She whispered, still not convinced, but she dropped her eyes to her lap, hoping Mercedes would not view the words as a challenge but rather a plea. “I am supposed to take care of you.”

“You do protect me, you will protect me. Admitting pain or feeling makes you no less the strong, driven, force of nature I have always known you to be. Allowing yourself to be taken care of does not render you incapable of caring for others. I count on you like no other in my life. You are my champion, Ingrid.” Never knowing Mercedes to be anything other than sincere, nonetheless Ingrid had to search her face for the truth. In the wan moonlight, Mercedes’s fair skin almost glowed. A lock of her dusty blonde hair fell against her cheek, and without thinking, Ingrid tucked it behind her ear, her knuckles grazing her cheek.

“You will not think less of me?” Ingrid bit her lip hard, terrified of her answer.

She nearly tumbled backwards as Mercedes rose up on her knees and threw her arms around her shoulders and head, pulling her close, squeezing her tight. “There is nothing you could ever do to make me think less of you, Ingrid.”

Her head held tight against her breast, she felt the vibration and conviction of her words and returned her embrace. It was so easy to relax against her, submit to the embrace. “Even though, I k—” Tears cloud her vision once again, and despite herself, she trembled.

“Hush now.” Mercedes rescued her from finishing the sentence. “There is nothing, I give you my word.” Relinquishing her hug, she sat back on her heels but left her hands on the other woman’s shoulders. “Do not hide your feelings from me. No more hiding. I am your sanctuary, remember our oath? You do not have to protect me from you, okay? New rule?”

Ingrid knew she could say no. She knew that she had a choice. Every time she established an expectation, she always phrased it as a suggestion, always giving her the opportunity of choice. If she said no, Mercedes would respect that, and it would not be pushed. Eventually, she nodded. She would choose to trust her. Then, knowing that she always wanted her to respond verbally, added, “Yes, Mercedes.”

The smile Mercedes rewarded her with was dazzling even in the darkness. “Good girl,” Her heart tripped as it always did whenever she praised her with those words. Nervously and reflexively, she pressed her thighs together and hoped she did not notice. “Tell me what you need right now.”

“I—” She bit off the automatic response that she was fine. What did she need? She swallowed the rising lump in her throat; she did not want to talk. Talking would lead to tears again, and she was too exhausted to cry anymore tonight. But she did not want Mercedes to leave; she did not want to be alone. “Will you stay with me? I do not want to be by myself.”

Her answer was to slide off the bed and climb back into it, slipping underneath the blankets next to Ingrid. Laying on her back. Mercedes gently tugged the back of the long tunic Ingrid wore to sleep, indicating for her to lay down. Pulse suddenly quickening, she began to lay back but was caught by her arm around her shoulders, pulling her onto her side, facing her. A hand on the back of her head guided her head to rest on her chest. Initially, she stiffened at the intimacy of the position.

This was far closer than they had ever been before, and had she not been so exhausted, Ingrid might have realized that this closeness was soothing a yearning ache she did not even know she possessed. Acquiescing to the want, she looped her arm around her midsection, fisting in the fabric of her night shirt, and tangled her leg over one of Mercedes’s and under the other.

“Is this okay?” Mercedes asked quietly.

Ingrid nodded into her chest, shutting her eyes. “Yes, Mercie.”

“Sleep, my knight.” Slender, healing fingers raked through and stroked her hair. “I will be right here if you need me.”

Nodding again, she tried to speak but the heavy insistence of sleep was already claiming her. The nightmare and panic attack had drained her, and the ginger touches in her hair and along her forearm swiftly lulled her sleep. Her last thought was trying to remember the last time she had felt so safe, so certain of her well-being as she was in this moment, pressed against Mercedes’s side and held so carefully, as if she were delicate, precious.

In the stillness of the pre-dawn hours, the third wall disintegrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I greatly appreciate your thoughts and feedback. If there is still interest, I am planning to continue this beyond the next chapter (I originally planned 4 chapters) as a new story in the series. 
> 
> But I have not completely figured out what the new story will be/feature, so I'm open to suggestions. :-)


	4. No More Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had she really been so oblivious in her youth? So thick-headed that she had dismissed a blossoming attraction for Mercedes as merely a desire for friendship? The answer was, yes, of course. Because had she not done the same with Dorothea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for MakaS0ul. Who was a real champ and stuck around for this chapter and reminded me that I needed to get my shit together and finish this. Also, I apologize for the delay. As I am sure it was for all of us, the pandemic proved to be a major disruption in our lives, so it took me a long time to get back to writing. Thank you all for continuing to read this, and I hope all of you are safe and well.
> 
> If there is still interest, I will continue to this story as a series with one shots to continue Ingrid and Mercedes's story. Let me know if y'all are still interested. :-)

In all the time they had been together, Ingrid did not think she had awakened before Mercedes even once. It was usually the creak of the floorboards as the other woman dressed and went downstairs that woke her every morning. Occasionally, she slept so deeply that Mercedes was forced to traipse back up the stairs and gently wake her by stroking her hair and telling her that if she did not wake up, her breakfast would grow cold.

She was grateful to wake up with the warmth of another person beside her, especially after the sterile cold of her nightmares. Mercedes had held her through the night, and Ingrid had slept soundly, peacefully, dreamlessly. Even though her eyes were sore and dry from all the tears she had shed, though her throat still felt tight, waking up in Mercedes’s arms felt… good. Normally after such a nightmare, she would awake seized by dread, her chest heavy with the burden of memories. But it wasn’t so this morning.

Carefully, she extricated herself from the still-sleeping woman’s arms, propped herself on an elbow and watched the bishop sleep.

It did not seem possible for Mercedes to appear even more at peace than she did when she was awake, but sleep slackened her features, easing lines of tension that Ingrid had never noticed. The bishop was always so unflappable, so persistently calm. She was graceful and elegant, even when doing common chores. Even on the battlefield she managed to appear immaculate, a portrait of decorum in the chaos of blood and death.

But asleep she was serene in a different way. Pale lips slightly parted, bangs disheveled and half in her face. Her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. The covers bunched at her waist, and the shift she slept in was twisted and pulled low enough that Ingrid could see a shadow of cleavage. She was beautifully unkempt, unguarded, normal. This was a face that few, perhaps no one, had ever seen. Mercedes as herself, not the bishop, not the orphanage matron, not his majesty’s healer, not a soldier. Just Mercedes. There was immeasurable beauty in imperfection.

And yet, Dorothea’s shade darkened her thoughts. She started to reach for her, to sweep her bangs from her brow, to touch her delicate skin. It felt like a need, an almost irresistible impulse to feel her, but she stopped short. The impulse stirred another memory, long forgotten. Why in these moments when she felt most drawn to the bishop, did Dorothea’s ghost haunt her?

This was the second time that Dorothea had come to mind while she gazed at the bishop. It had happened last night as well, no doubt spurring that night terror. The two were nothing alike. They did not resemble one another physically. Their personalities were completely different. Dorothea was outgoing; she could fill a room by merely stepping into it. She did not have to say a word but every eye in the room would reflexively snap to her, and the singer reveled in the attention. She was a kind, friendly woman, but there was no denying that she thrived in the presence of others.

Mercedes was not quite the opposite, but different enough that Ingrid could not figure out what it was that so reminded her of Dorothea. Perhaps it was not the two women who were the same, but something about them.

Or maybe, the way they made Ingrid feel was the same. They both inspired an almost magnetic pull, as if Ingrid was drawn to them, as if something inside her craved their presence, their smile, their laughter, their attention. Ingrid had not realized it until this moment but…

Romance had never occupied her thoughts before, never distracted her. Of course, she felt attraction to others; she had felt it towards Dorothea, but everyone felt that way about Dorothea, and it had been easy to dismiss that want to be close to her as nothing more than an intense friendship.

Attraction had always been nothing more than a distraction from training and later, duty. It was easily ignored, dismissed, or shoved away. She had thought Mercedes beautiful and intriguing, and a bit intimidating despite her demure manner. She’d thought so since she had first seen her, her very first day at the Academy. And then she had gotten to know her. She had always wanted to be close to her, spend time with her. She had cherished those afternoons they spent drinking tea and talking. Realization hit her with the weight of one of Dedue’s blows.

Ingrid blinked, staring down at the sleeping face of the woman who had slowly become her closest friend as she realized that word was no longer accurate.

Had she really been so oblivious in her youth? So thick-headed that she had dismissed a blossoming attraction for Mercedes as merely a desire for friendship? The answer was, yes, of course. Because had she not done the same with Dorothea?

It all made sense now.

Goddess, how could she be so dense? It was not as though she didn’t know other friends, classmates that had friendships that blossomed into couplings. Felix and Sylvain. They had known each other since childhood but it was only midway through the war that they became lovers. Hilda and Marianne. Caspar and Lindhardt. Lysithia and Edelgard. And while she was not completely certain, there were others, surely?

The want inside her was not for friendship. She had had Dorothea’s friendship. She had Mercedes’s friendship. The want inside her, drawing her to both women, had been more. It had been longing. Loneliness in their absence… and even in their presence, a craving for more. No matter how close she had been to them, it never felt enough. A gnawing ache she had dismissed as irrelevant, as a normal aspect of friendship.

She simply had never realized it, not until this moment. Not until she wondered what it was about Mercedes that reminded her of Dorothea. Not until she had realized that she had not felt that ache with other friends. That the ache was unique to only these two of all of her friends. Not until she realized that she had fallen in love with both women. It was that longing that united the two in her consciousness, that desire for more.

“Ingrid, what is it?”

She had been so stunned by her internal revelation, she had not noticed Mercedes stir, had not seen her beautiful light blue eyes flutter open or her reach up until fingertips grazed her cheek. The touch startled her, and Ingrid jumped, jerking her cheek away, sitting up, pulling back.

No, no, no, why did she have to wake now? When the evidence of her thoughts was surely written all over her features.

Concerned, Mercedes quickly followed suit and sat up as well. “What is it? Are you alright, Ingrid?”

“I… I’m fine.” She managed to stutter, dismayed that her claim sounded weak even to her own ears.

“I know that isn’t true.” Luckily, the bishop did not use her stern tone because it would have been the knight’s undoing, but she did push, gently. “What did we just make a rule last night? Talk to me, please.”

Ingrid had always been very good with rules. After all, a knight was governed by their values and one of those values was obedience. But this was different. This was difficult. She was not sure who she was protecting with her silence, herself or Mercedes. Possibly both. She looked away from the bishop, out the window where snow still fell heavily.

If she told her that her feelings at some time, she was not exactly sure when, had begun to change from friendship to romantic, it would irreversibly change who they now were together, and Ingrid did not think she could bear it. For the first time since she could remember, she was happy. It was not what she expected, but she was truly happy as Mercedes’s knight and official guardian of the orphanage.

She had thought her duty as a knight was to ride into battle at the command of her lord, but it turned out that her duty was much more gratifying when it required her to consider the other woman’s needs, to switch from lance to sword to become an more effective protector, to scrub the orphanage’s floors or repair the roof to further the ambitions of her lord. She was not ready to forsake her sword and lance, but she was happy that she was useful at small things that did not leave the taste of blood in her mouth.

Even if those small things were things that Mercedes was entirely capable of doing herself. She didn’t need Ingrid to help her put her cloak on, but she allowed her to do so. She could make her own cup of tea, but Ingrid enjoyed doing it because it brought Mercedes comfort. Little things that made the bishop’s life easier, eased her of the burden of renovating of orphanage, planning the arrival of two dozen children, managing its accounts, all while working around a father still determined to undermine her. If there was anything that she could do to make it all little easier, it made her feel accomplished.

Would Mercedes still want her to do those things if she knew? Would she deprive herself of Ingrid’s help? Would she want Ingrid as a knight at all? Even if she did, how much would it hurt her to know for certain that her feelings were not reciprocated? She had barely had five minutes to cope with the realization herself.

Why did her heart have to ache for more? She was so happy here. There was no place else in the world for her. She had left Fhirdiad, denounced her family, and everyone else who cared for her was dead. All that was left in Garreg Mach Monastery were ghosts. Why did she have to want more now? Why did she have to realize it now? When she finally felt a measure of peace and happiness?

She had been silent too long. She did not want to disobey her lord, but she did not know if she could bear the grief that obeying would surely bring her. Tears welled in her eyes again at the inner conflict as she tried to reconcile what was worse, disappointing Mercedes or frightening her away. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to admit something she never had to another soul.

“I am scared.”

The mattress caved as Mercedes shifted, crawled across the bed to kneel in front of her. Reflexively, Ingrid balled her fists. Just having her this close, knowing the sympathy and kindness that waited for her in blue eyes, was too much. She sniffled and the first tear escaped and ran down her cheek, she turned her face further away from the other woman and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Oh, my sweet Ingrid,” The bishop sounded pained, but still Ingrid could not bring herself to look at her. “I—” Mercedes covered her balled fists with her hands. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.” Ingrid responded automatically.

“Then look at me.” Turning her head and forcing her eyes to open was one of the hardest things Ingrid had ever done. She did not want to; she feared she was not strong enough to see her without breaking. But she did as she was told. The bishop was blurred by her tears, and she stifled a small cry before it became a sob. Mercedes reached up, not to take her chin, but to wipe her tears away. “Is this what you’re scared of?”

Perhaps it was because her vision was blurred by tears, or perhaps she blinked, but she did not see Mercedes lean forward, close the distance between them. All the sudden, their lips were pressed together. It was a slow, lingering kiss that Ingrid responded to out of instinct, her fists relaxing to grab at the front of the other woman’s sleeping shirt, to pull her closer. Her mind hardly had time to process that she was being kissed. That Mercedes was kissing her. That the soft lips against her own were not a dream. That the tongue swiping her lower lip was not a fantasy. She sobbed into her mouth, but Mercedes soothed it by kissing her more firmly.

Too soon, she pulled away, leaving the tears to dry on Ingrid’s cheeks. She blinked several times to clear her vision, conscious of the way she was practically panting, as if she had just finished training. They were silent until Ingrid remembered that Mercedes had asked her a question. “Y-yes.” She managed to stammer.

“Are you still scared?” Mercedes drew her lower lip between her teeth. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed. Her chest heaved with each breath, and Ingrid made the mistake of looking, the fabric of her shirt stretched tight across her breasts with each breath. Her mouth dry, Ingrid shook her head, forgetting to voice her answer, and for once, her lord did not prompt her. “Then come here.”

She did not wait for her to comply before grabbing the front of Ingrid’s shirt, pulling her forward while simultaneously falling back to the bed, pulling her on top of her. Clumsily, Ingrid adjusted so that she lay on top of her, slipping her thigh in between her legs. She was already dizzy with want, stretched so taut with need that she felt close to snapping, but Mercedes was relentless and did not give her time to think about it, kissing her again and ending all doubt, fear, or uncertainty. Threading her fingers through her short hair, holding her closer. Kissing her until Ingrid wondered what she ever had to be afraid of.

* * *

The sun had risen higher in the sky, but the light was still a dull gray. Snow still fell, showing no signs of slowing. They had pulled apart some time ago, content to be in one another’s presence. They lay on the bed at an odd angle, both on their backs, side by side, Ingrid’s fingers interlaced with Mercedes’s. It was such a simple gesture, almost juvenile in its innocence, but holding hands with Mercedes made her whole body feel warm.

It was Mercedes who interrupted the silence. “We should talk.”

Panic tightened her throat, rendering speech impossible, so Ingrid nodded. Was this where the bishop told her that despite the past hours they spent kissing and embracing, that it had been a fluke, an accident? Had she been foolish enough to believe that someone as beautiful and kind and perfect as Mercedes, someone who was spoiled for her choice of partner, would ever pick a simple knight, with no fortune, nothing to offer but her service? She steeled herself for the inevitable rejection, determined not to show her broken heart, not to cry until she was alone.

“Hey,” Mercedes rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. Ingrid stared at the ceiling, swallowed. She needed a moment to gather herself before looking at the other woman. But the bishop was unwilling to wait, and cupped her cheek, turning her face. “There is nothing to fear, Ingrid. I just think it is wise to talk, so we are both comfortable with how our relationship changes now. I mean, that is, if you want it to change. I should not have assumed…”

Mercedes ducked her head, cheeks pink with a blush that spread to the tops of her ears. The uncharacteristic demonstration of insecurity was reassuring in its own way. At least Ingrid was not the only one who was nervous and uncertain. To reassure her, she turned her head into the hand that cupped her cheek and kissed the palm. “I do. Can I ask a question?”

“You have never needed my permission to speak, sweet knight.” Mercedes teased, but she appeared relieved.

“Have you…” Ingrid cleared her throat. She rolled onto her side, mirroring her position, even her blush was reflected in the other woman. “Have you always felt this way about me?”

“I… have always admired you. You seemed to always know precisely what you wanted and worked so hard for it. You were… are… a beautiful girl, so graceful when you trained, so disciplined. I thought maybe… when we first met, but…” There was a trace of sadness in her smile, and she fidgeted with the hem of Ingrid’s shirt. “It was clear you had no interest in romance, at the very least you were oblivious to it. And I always assumed that if you did want a partner, it would be Dorothea.”

She flinched at the mention of the singer. She had been oblivious, completely unaware of anyone’s romantic intentions. And the revelation was so new that she had not coped with the sting of it. “It never occurred to me that someone as refined and mature as you would ever be interested in me. It never occurred to me that _anyone_ was interested in me. I still can’t quite believe it.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she thought back to her adolescence at the monastery. “I think I… tried not to think about romance, because I always assumed that I would be forced into a marriage. What is the point of romance when I knew that I’d be forced to marry for the benefit of my family? I would only get hurt, so I just… put all my focus into becoming a knight. Then the war happened.”

“You have no idea how impressive you are. You would ride out on the battlefield like a storm, a whirlwind. There were more than a few times you galloped to my defense. Do you remember once, I somehow managed to become cut off from the others? You charged through those soldiers, wielding your lance like a scythe. Then you reached down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up to ride behind you. I had to keep one arm around your waist so I wouldn’t fall. I nearly kissed you after that battle. You can’t rescue a girl like that and not expect her to swoon.”

Ingrid did remember, but it was as if the memory were drawn into sharper focus with this revelation of her own feelings. The cold sweat of fear she had felt when she had spotted the bishop surrounded by Imperial soldiers, the silent prayer she had offered the Goddess as she reeled her horse to ride to her rescue. Those that were not knocked aside by over a thousand pounds of war horse, she cut down with her lance. She smashed the face of one with her boot before the area was clear enough for her to extend her gauntleted hand down to the bishop. They had ridden back to the main body of the army, Ingrid still swinging her lance and Mercedes casting spells with one hand, the other looped tightly around her waist.

When Mercedes had sought her out later that night to thank her for the daring rescue, Ingrid had dismissed it as nothing, embarrassed by the praise. She wondered if she had been just a little bit more self-aware and a little less awkward, if Mercedes would have kissed her that night, and how different things might have been.

“So, you’ve always wanted me to be your knight?” Ingrid could not help but tease, feeling a small swell of triumph when the bishop blushed again.

“No! I… I promise the idea never occurred to me until here.” The blush gave way to genuine concern. “I genuinely thought it was a way I could help. It was never my intention to take advantage or—”

Ingrid, feeling bold, silenced her with a chaste kiss. “I know. And it has, helped.” The kiss seemed to quell some of her worry, and the bishop relaxed enough to lean in for another, humming with pleasure. “I still want to be your knight. I mean, just because we’re… my oath to you still stands.”

“You still want me to be your lord?” Mercedes sucked her lower lip between her teeth, clearly mulling over something in her mind.

“Do… do you not want to be?” Ingrid was surprised by the stab of anxiety the question wrought.

“That isn’t it at all.” Mercedes stroked her hair. “I just… for the sake of my own conscience, I believe it requires further discussion now.” She sat up and ran her fingers through her own hair, gazed out the window. “I don’t think we’ll be able to leave the cottage today, but if we don’t start a fire soon, we may freeze.”

Assured that Mercedes still wanted her as a knight but confused as what it had to do with the bishop’s conscience, Ingrid nodded. “Okay, Mercie.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, shivering when her bare feet touched the cold wooden floor.

“Ah,” Mercedes hesitated, stopping short of putting her feet to the floor. She pulled them back up and scooted to the opposite side of the bed, next to Ingrid. “I forgot about the lamp.”

“The lamp?” Ingrid frowned and peered to the other side of the bed. The glass oil lamp that normally sat on the table beside her bed was shattered on the floor. Luckily, it had only been half full of oil, but it was still broken into a hundred pieces in a small puddle of oil. “How…?”

Kissing her cheek, Mercedes smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up if you start the fire?”

* * *

At some point during their time together, Ingrid had begun to look forward to making tea for Mercedes.

After pulling on a pair of breeches and socks, she had gone downstairs as agreed. It was absolutely freezing in the small cottage, but once she coaxed a roaring fire to life in the range, it began to warm quickly. She’d opened the cottage door briefly, but Mercedes had been correct. The snow was nearly waist high and still falling; it was unlikely they’d be leaving any time soon. But it meant that they could spend time together without fretting that they were neglecting their chores at the orphanage.

With Mercedes was still sweeping up the remnants of the lamp, she began brewing their morning tea. The bishop was always grateful when she did, smiling broadly and thanking her whenever Ingrid set the cup in front of her. But more than the praise or gratitude, Ingrid had discovered the act itself centered her.

The care she put into boiling the water, in monitoring the tea so it did not steep too long and become bitter, in straining the loose leaves from the drink, in precisely measuring just the right amount of honey so it was not too sweet. Each step was meticulous and deliberate, requiring her complete focus. It stilled her mind, steadied her breathing, chased away any thoughts or anxieties that may clutter her mind. The simple ritual of making tea brought her peace, grounded her in the moment.

This morning, it soothed the anxious hum in her chest, the swirl of muddled thoughts. Mercedes had kissed her. More than once. They still had to talk, to discuss. But while preparing her tea, her mind settled on that one thought: Mercedes had kissed her.

She had not heard her come down the stairs, her socked feet noiseless on the wooden floor. She had been so absorbed by stirring the honey into Mercedes’s tea, she startled as arms snaked around her waist to hold her, her back pressed against the bishop’s front, her chin resting on her shoulder, her whisper in her ear. “I have wanted to hold you like this so many times. Watching you at the range, with such serious focus written in your expression. You are so handsome when you’re determined, Ingrid.”

Ingrid’s ears burned. “Why didn’t you?”

“Respect. Consent. You are my dearest friend, and I would never do anything to harm you, risk that friendship.” As she spoke, her words were a whisper of breath on her ear that caused the knight to shiver, but Mercedes continued as if she had not noticed. “Even when I became fairly certain of your feelings, I knew that you weren’t. I did not want to do anything without your informed consent. I still don’t.”

Leaning back into the embrace, Ingrid shut her eyes. “You have it. My consent that is.”

“That is what we need to talk about, I believe.” Mercedes squeezed her tightly to signal that she was pulling away, and Ingrid straightened. She carried the bishop’s teacup and saucer to the table first, setting it in front of her before returning to the range for her own. She sat across from her, as she had down countless times before, just as she had the night she had sworn her first oath to her friend.

“Thank you for the tea.” Mercedes said after taking a small sip, smiling. “You’ve gotten really good at preparing it just right for me.”

Blushing, Ingrid shifted nervously in her seat. Tea was the farthest thing from her mind. Mercedes had said they needed to talk and prolonging it with small talk only made her anxious. “Do you want to be my lover, Mercie?” She blurted, blushing an even darker shade. But luckily, Mercedes laughed quietly.

“I do… if that is what you want.” Mercedes almost seemed shy, ducking her head so that her hair fell and hid her face. Like Ingrid, she had not fully dressed either. She had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and pulled on thick, tall socks, but her hair was unrestrained. It made her look younger, more vulnerable. It was so uncharacteristic to see the bishop as anything other than certain. Or perhaps the bishop was simply allowing her to see this aspect of her for the first time. Either way, Ingrid was enchanted.

“It is.”

“Do you want us to continue as knight and lord as well?”

Ingrid nodded without hesitation. “I do.”

“Why?”

“I—” Frowning, Ingrid hesitated. She felt like it should be an easy question with an obvious answer. “Being a knight is all I have ever wanted to be. And being your knight… you are more than worthy of my service, and I am honored to serve you.”

“What do you like about it?” Mercedes asked, wrapping both hands around her teacup to warm them.

Ingrid thought about it, considered how to put it into words. “It gives me purpose and direction. I like being useful, helpful. It… focuses me, keeps me centered.”

“You were helping me before you swore the oath, and you were restless and distracted and impatient. What changed?” Mercedes asked. It was clear that the bishop was asking these questions as much to push Ingrid to think about them as she was for the answers themselves.

“You did. You became my lord.”

“And how is that different?”

“Mercedes, I don’t—”

“Ingrid.”

She exhaled a long puff of air in exasperation. “A lord is… that is why there are two oaths. As much duty as a knight has to their lord, the lord has to their knight. A lord is responsible for their knight, to command them, guide them, teach them. The failure of a knight is not theirs alone; it is also a failure of the lord to teach them, to hold them accountable, to enable them to succeed. I know you would never allow me to fail. You hold me accountable for my actions, correct me when I falter, direct me when I require it. In return, I offer you have my service, my devotion, my protection.”

Mercedes took a deep breath and held it, as if dreading the next question. “How would you feel if we were no longer lord and knight? What if we were only… partners… lovers?”

“Like… you did not care for me.” She felt herself deflate, lowering her head to stare at the table in front of her. The question was just as painful as the one Ingrid had asked herself earlier. What if she could only ever be just Mercedes’s knight? It surprised her that the idea that she could only ever be her lover inspired the same profound sense of loss in her heart, a sharp stab of grief. It was as if she needed to be both to feel loved, having one or the other felt like a betrayal to the other part of herself.

“Of course, I do! I care for you so deeply, Ingrid. That is why I am asking you these questions.” She reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, pausing to think before continuing. “It is because I care for you that I want our relationship to be built on this understanding of who we are to one another. The last thing I want is for you to resent me because you do not want your lover giving you commands or holding you accountable. I want to know why you want this, not just because you get to be a knight, but what does it make you feel? What does being my knight give you that I could not give you as a partner?”

Ingrid chewed on her lower lip as she considered how to put her impulse, her desire, her instinct into words. It was difficult because she did not entirely understand it herself. “Sometimes,” She began, hiding her clenched fists by resting them on her thighs under the table. “When… when you are acting as my lord, I can just… let go of my thoughts. The things that trouble me don’t anymore because I am focused on carrying out your will. Sometimes, it is the only thing that can quiet my mind… especially if I’m troubled by memories.”

The bishop’s expression was unreadable, but at least she did not appear to be repulsed or judgmental. She sipped the tea that Ingrid had made her, set it back on its saucer before answering. “You find comfort in submission.” It was not a question or a suggestion of possibility; Mercedes said it as though she already knew it to be truth.

“I—” Ingrid bit off the instinctive denial before it passed her lips, felt her cheeks burn. Wasn’t it shameful, framed in such a way? Didn’t it make her weak that she found solace in surrender? As a knight, she was supposed to be strong, fearless, a fighter. Knights did not back down, they did not surrender, they did not acquiesce… except to their lord. Maybe that was the point. As a knight, it was her duty to fight and struggle and persevere… except against her lord. Is that not what the oath said? May she find security and sanctuary in her lord? “If I let go, I know I can trust you. It’s… I think the only time I’ve known peace is when you’re in control, and all I have to do is listen. I trust… I know that you’ll keep me safe. I don’t need to worry about anything because… because you’ll take care of it, take care of me.”

Licking her lips, she paused. “It is not that I do not think you could not provide me some measure of comfort as a lover, but it is different. If I were to stop doing the things I do as your knight, it feels like I’m no longer able to do the things that show that I love you. And if you were to stop behaving as my lord… every time you make a rule, I know you’re making it to take care of me, because it’s what is best for me. If you stopped correcting me when I’ve broken a rule or telling me what to do… it would feel as though you no longer cared for me, that you no longer cared about what is best for me or my well-being. You may love me as a lover, but it feels lacking in care and intimacy if you were to stop behaving as my lord.”

She risked a glimpse at her lord’s face. Her cheeks were pink, and her pale blue eyes wider than usual. As she exhaled, her breath quavered as if she were trembling. A cold shock of fear lanced through Ingrid’s heart. Stupid. She had frightened Mercedes, lain too much of her burden on the shoulders of her friend. Not only was Ingrid’s safety and well-being not her responsibility, not in that way, she was likely repulsed that the knight experienced love in such a bizarre manner. Who would feel secure, loved when they were powerless?

“I’m sorry, Mercedes. Forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” She forced a laugh, but it sounded sharp and wounded even to herself. “Lack of sleep has addled my thoughts. Maybe I just—"

“Stop.”

Ingrid did.

“Come here.” She breathed the command, the words shaky but no less authoritative than usual. Automatically, Ingrid obeyed. Abandoning her seat, she rounded the table to stand beside where the other woman sat. Mercedes turned in her seat to face her. “Kneel.”

Whether it was intentional or not, Mercedes had placed them in the same exact spots, the same positions, they had been in months ago when they had sworn oaths to one another. Ingrid sat back on her heels, hands on her upper thighs as she waited. The commands were much more direct and curt than usual. But despite that, or perhaps because of it, they immediately dispelled Ingrid’s anxiety and uncertainty. With just a few words, Mercedes made her experience what she had desperately been trying to explain.

“Ingrid, if I am able to grant you a fraction of the comfort and peace that I experience by being your lord, then so long as it is within my power, I will do so. If I can show you how loved you are by being your lord as well as your lover, then I am yours as long as you would have me.” She did not ever remember hearing the bishop’s voice waver before. Slender fingers running through Ingrid’s short hair only coaxed her deeper into the blissful calm she experienced whenever she placed herself completely in Mercedes’s hands. She allowed her eyes to shut, wanting to focus on her voice and touch. “There is no shame in submission, no weakness in surrender. I am… overwhelmed and humbled beyond measure that you have found me worthy of such a precious gift, of your trust. I swear a new oath to you now, that I will endeavor to be deserving of it.”

It was not until her voice cracked on the last words that Ingrid realized that the tremble in her voice had been raw emotion. She opened her eyes in time to see a single tear escape the corner of the bishop’s eye. Normally, she would have been frantic to reassure or console her. While she still did not fully understand her own feelings yet, while she still did not quite comprehend why she found such comfort in placing her will and trust in Mercedes, she knew the tears were not of grief or fear.

Realizing they shared such a profound trust in one another was intensely emotional. For once, Ingrid was confident that she had not done something wrong, that she had not caused her friend pain or distress. She felt the same emotion constricting her own throat, and she swallowed hard, twice, to loosen it. “Then my oath to answer yours is that I will strive to be worthy of being _yours_.” The tightness crept back into her voice, causing the final word to be a breathless rasp.

Just as she had after their first oaths had been sworn, Mercedes cupped her cheek tenderly, and this time, Ingrid tilted her head into her touch, deliberately rather than reflexively. “My sweet knight.”

Ingrid allowed her eyes to shut. “My lord.” Mercedes’s thumb stroked her cheek, and Ingrid felt as though she were floating. Her shoulders unknotted, her hands relaxed where they rested on her thighs, and the rest of the world seemed a very far and irrelevant thing. The bishop gently guided her head to rest in her lap, and Ingrid shifted to obey the unspoken command, scooting closer to lay her head against her knee.

Some part of her registered that her undergarments were damp with want again, but it was not as important as the soothing calm that enveloped her as Mercedes stroked her hair. Much later, when she went to stand again, she would notice how wet she was, but now she was only aware of the tenderness of her touch, the quiet adoration of the endearments she murmured. She was in Mercedes’s hands and that was all that mattered.

* * *

The rest of the day was painfully normal. It was too late for breakfast, so they reheated some of the stew from the previous night for lunch. They ate across from one another like normal, discussed their plans for the day like normal. The snow had finally stopped, so Ingrid would start shoveling snow away from the door of the cottage while Mercedes worked on the account logs for the orphanage that she had been neglecting.

After lunch, they did just that. Ingrid dressed like normal and started out the door like normal, but Mercedes called her over from the kitchen table. She set her quill down, hooked a finger in the front of her doublet, and pulled her down for a quick but intense kiss. That was not normal, or perhaps it was their new normal? Ingrid’s face was still hot and red when she stepped outside into the cold.

They prepared and ate dinner like normal, talked like normal. It was as if nothing had changed, but when the bishop had taken her hand to lead her upstairs for the night, it was made clear to her that everything had changed.

“Why don’t we share my bed tonight? My room is a bit warmer than yours.” Mercedes said lightly, already pulling a clean sleeping shirt from her dresser.

“S-s-sure.” Ingrid’s mouth was dry, and she retreated to her room to change. She changed as quickly as she could, but her fingers fumbled with the lacings of her jacket, her fingers trembling. She was not nervous to sleep in the bishop’s bed, but there was a mischievous quirk to Mercedes’s smile, as if she had very little intention to actually sleep. 

Mercedes should not have any expectations of her. They had known each other so long, knew one another so well, that she had to know that Ingrid’s experience was limited at best. Realistically, it was nonexistent. She also knew that if she expressed uncertainty, if at any time she hesitated, Mercedes would not be angry if nothing… like _that_ happened. She was patient and gentle, and she had nothing to be afraid of. So why was she so nervous?

Ingrid closed the door to her own bedroom behind her but advanced no further. Mercedes sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. But it was as if her legs had stiffened to lead. The sleeping shirt that she had pulled on covered her to midthigh, and she clenched the hem of it in her fists anxiously.

“Come here, sweet knight.”

Sighing in relief, Ingrid obeyed, uncertain if she would have been able to move without being commanded. When she was close enough, she took her hand and pulled her to sit beside her. She had never been on the other woman’s bed before. It was much softer than her own, like resting on a cloud.

“Ingrid, we do not have to do anything. We can go to bed, we can do whatever it is you want to do.” She brought Ingrid’s hand to her chest, held it over her heart so she could feel the strong thud of her heartbeat against her palm. “We have all the time in the world for us. We can wait as long as you want.”

“I don’t want to wait!” Ingrid said quickly, blushed and looked at her lap. “I… I don’t have any experience, but I want to. I want to be close to you. However I can be close to you.” In her nervousness, she began to ramble. “I think I’ve wanted to be close to you for a long time, and just didn’t realize it. I thought that maybe I was a pervert or…” She pressed her lips together tightly to prevent any more words from escaping, her face burning even hotter.

“Why in the name of the Goddess would you ever think you’re a pervert, my love?” Mercedes sounded truly bewildered. When Ingrid took too long to respond, her voice sharpened just slightly. “No matter what you say, I will not think any less of you. Desire is a gift of the Goddess. There is nothing about it to be embarrassed of, I give you my word. Answer me, please.”

If Mercedes truly believed it to be a gift of the Goddess, no wonder she experienced none of the shame or reticence that Ingrid did. Blessings of the Goddess were to be honored, celebrated. And while she was not as devout as the bishop, she at least believed that. She licked her lips, still staring at her lap. “I… there have been times where you’ve done something… said something, and my body reacted on its own. I didn’t mean it to happen. It just does, and I know it shouldn’t happen but…”

“Who said it shouldn’t happen?” She clutched Ingrid’s hand more tightly to her chest. “You cannot help the way your body responds anymore than I can help what mine does. I assure you, however you feel is normal. Now what things have I done because perhaps I can do them again?” Even without looking at her, Ingrid heard the smile in her voice.

She laughed softly, grateful for the break in tension, inhaled resolutely. “I, um… sometimes, it’s the way you speak to me. Especially when you’re clearly speaking to me as my lord.” She had started speaking strongly, but her bravery faltered. “When… when you grab me, grab my face to look at you…” She mumbled.

Mercedes released her hand, dropped it to her lap, and did just that. Taking her chin in her hand, she tilted her face up so that their eyes met. “Like this?” It was not a rough act, but it was deliberate one, firm, and perhaps a bit possessive? A gesture to indicate that she was in control, that Ingrid was hers to command. The shock of arousal that Ingrid felt was no longer surprising. It was familiar now, but no less intense than it was the first or subsequent times Mercedes had done it. In fact, it was even stronger, perhaps because Mercedes was doing it on purpose, to intentionally trigger such a reaction.

A whimper escaped Ingrid’s lips, a small sound of desperation. She was certain that she could not possibly blush anymore furiously than she was. She nodded, and dropped her eyes since she could not otherwise look away. “Y-yes.” She managed. “I’m sorry, I—"

“Sweet girl, you have nothing to feel ashamed of,” Mercedes crooned and released her chin with a lingering caress of her thumb. She reached for Ingrid’s hand again, gently moving it along her thigh, sliding under the bottom of her shirt, and guiding it between her own legs.

Ingrid gasped audibly at the wet heat that she could feel against her fingers even through the fabric of her underwear. It was as if her mind abruptly malfunctioned. Her vision dimmed, her muscles tensed, and her center clenched. Sweat broke out on her upper lip. Desire enveloped her like an inferno, consuming her utterly. She had never experienced such a powerful surge of want, of arousal. She reflexively moved her fingers against the slickness, wanting to feel more of it, to feel the heat between her fingers.

“There is no shame experiencing arousal when you express your submission. Because as much as it turns you on,” Mercedes breathed, inhaled sharply as Ingrid moved her fingers. “It turns me on too.” Her normally pale blue eyes were dark with want. “I want you, Ingrid.”

“I’m yours, Mercedes.”

With a low groan of appreciation and desire, Mercedes tugged Ingrid’s hand away from her heat, smiling at her whine of protest. “I’d like to…” She retreated to the headboard, simultaneously pulling her knight with her. “I’d like to have my way with you first, Ingrid. If that’s okay with you?”

Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat as another wave of arousal swept over her. The pressure of building desire was so strong, she thought she might pass out before Mercedes even touched her. Remembering to answer, she nodded eagerly. “You don’t have to ask; you never have to ask. I’m yours, Mercie.”

Gently, Mercedes pushed her until she lay flat on her back and rose up onto her knees. As she swung one leg over her to straddle her torso, she pulled her sleeping shirt over her head, tossed it aside. “You may be mine,” She said, planting a hand beside Ingrid’s head to support her as she leaned forward. “But I need to know you’ll stop me if you ever become uncomfortable. If I ever do something you don’t like. Or if you simply do not want to.”

Ingrid’s mouth was dry. Of course, she had seen Mercedes naked before. All their years together, the Academy, the cramped tents of the war, the small cottage they shared, sometimes modesty was an impossibility, a luxury they could not afford. Even in the early days of the Academy, she had already possessed the strong curves and generous breasts of a woman, while Ingrid felt awkward and almost boyish in comparison. She had always admired the other woman’s body. But this was different. This was very different.

She licked her lips and forced her gaze away from Mercedes’s breasts which hung tantalizingly close to her face. At this moment, she could not imagine a single thing Mercedes could do to her that she would not like. “I… I will.” She whispered, her voice a strained rasp.

Mercedes kissed her passionately. When they had kissed for the first time, when they had lay in Ingrid’s bed, their kisses had been passionate in a much different way. Before, it was as if each kiss had been a confession of their feelings for one another. They varied in length, intensity, pace… as if it were a conversation spoken in the movement and pressure of lips, in the tentative flicks of the tongue. The kisses had been all the emotions, the fears, the hesitation, the joy that neither had ever spoken to the other.

This kiss was desire, raw and primal. Mercedes’s tongue pushing past Ingrid’s slightly parted lips, claiming her mouth. It was brief but deliberate and searing. The bishop pulled back just slightly so that their lips brushed as she spoke. “My sweet knight, if you want me to slow down, to be more gentle, say ‘yellow.’” The next kiss was like a bolt of lightning, causing Ingrid’s eyes to roll back, her body to stiffen. Her hips rolled ineffectively, pinned by the other woman’s weight. She whimpered as Mercedes’s bit her lower lip hard enough to sting. She was panting when the kiss abruptly ended. “Say ‘red,’ and everything stops immediately. No matter what. You are…” She trailed kisses along the curve of her jaw to her ear lobe. “my precious knight, my dearest friend, my love.” Her tongue was agonizingly hot against the rim of her ear. “Red stops everything, understood? I never want to harm you.”

Leaned forward, Mercedes’s breast brushed against her cheek. Ingrid was breathless, dizzy with an ache for more. Mercedes had barely touched her, but she was throbbing with need. The furthest thing from her mind was “red,” but she nodded emphatically. “You would never hurt me, Mercie.”

The smirk that graced Mercedes lips was devilish, mischievous almost. She lowered herself so that their breasts pressed against one another, separated only by the thin cloth of Ingrid’s shirt. “My sweet knight, I said I never wanted to _harm_ you.” She lowered her lips to gently kiss the exposed skin where her shoulder met her neck. There was a hum in her voice, something almost predatory that caused her heart to race. “Hurting you is another matter entirely.”

Although she was confused, it did not seem to matter as long as Mercedes kept kissing her, touching her. Ingrid did not understand the distinction until the bishop sunk her teeth into her shoulder. The sudden sharp pain sent a jolt of arousal through her, radiating from the site of the bite and in between her legs simultaneously, lancing through her entire body. Ingrid cried out involuntarily. It was as if she felt the bishop everywhere at once, the pain immediately becoming pleasure, consuming her until she could not tell the difference between the two.

Her eyes stung from the intensity of the sensation. Goddess… She panted as Mercedes relaxed her jaw and soothed the marks left by her teeth with flicks of her tongue, ginger kisses. “Was that okay?” She asked, trailing her kisses along the side of her neck up to her jaw.

Incapable of speech, Ingrid nodded vehemently. “Mmhm.” She managed.

“Good girl.” Mercedes beamed down at her.

She already loved hearing those two words from the bishop. They always left her cheeks pink, her chest full and warm. But in this context, they had the added effect of causing her inner walls to clench. Ingrid whimpered, needing to feel more of the other woman, to be closer to her, to feel consumed by her. Her undergarments were soaked, arousal wet on her inner thighs. Thinking was becoming increasingly difficult, as if her mind was capable of thinking only of Mercedes, of her touch, of the feel of her against her. The prick behind her eyes intensified.

“P-please, Mercie…” She pleaded, not even sure what she was asking for.

As if that was what she had been waiting for, the bishop acquiesced. The night became a haze of touch, sensation, of lips and teeth and hands and fingers, as if she were being taken apart and held together by the things Mercedes did to her. Later, she would not remember when or how the rest of their clothing had been shed, only that Mercedes had stripped her of the last barriers between the sweat-slickness of their skin.

She felt consumed by Mercedes, surrounded by her, loved by her. It was as if she had completely submerged herself in the will of the other woman, as if she had given herself utterly to her, and Mercedes had readily accepted her, all of her. She was completely helpless and at the bishop’s mercy, but Ingrid had never felt more powerful. She belonged completely to her, and Mercedes ensured through touch and whispers that Ingrid knew how cherished she was. Being owned was not subjugation. To Ingrid, it was liberation.

There was only Mercedes. On top of her, breasts pressed against one another, nipples pebbling against the softness. Moving against her, as if their bodies had been expertly fitted to one another, as if they were made solely to slide against each other. The unbearable heat of her mouth everywhere, kissing her, drawing Ingrid’s nipple between her teeth, sucking. Inside her, fingers thrusting, peeling sighs and moans and cries from her lips. Her hips bucked as if she could take her deeper, feel more of her.

Mercedes brought her to the edge and held her there for what felt like hours. Until tears leaked from her eyes and she sobbed her need between pleas, unsure what she was actually begging for. She had become like a bowstring, stretched too taut, drawn beyond its limits. Yet Mercedes held her there until she was certain that she would snap, that she would unravel in her fingers. Finally, with a single, huskily whispered command, she released her.

Ingrid came with a scream and a shudder, clinging desperately to Mercedes, frantically moving against her hand and lips.

As if she knew that the initial release would not be enough, Mercedes stretched her taut again, released her. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out her own voice as she cried out as the ecstasy swallowed her again and again. It was an endless cycle of tension and release. Yet somehow, she could still hear Mercedes over the ragged pant of her breath, the deafening thud of her own pulse. “Good girl. That’s my sweet girl, my sweet knight. Let go. Let me ruin you, my love.”

And Ingrid eagerly complied.

* * *

It was right before dawn when Ingrid awoke again. She did not remember even falling asleep, but apparently, she had. She curled against the bishop’s side, head on her shoulder, arm around her middle. They were still naked, and the twinge of arousal between her legs was almost painful as she remembered all that they had done. Her muscles ached, her skin sensitive, her mouth dry, but all pleasantly so. It was akin to the exhaustion after a rigorous training session coupled with a heady calm. Ingrid closed her eyes and nuzzled into her shoulder; she had a little while longer before they needed to wake.

“Are you alright?” Mercedes asked softly.

She nodded. “Very alright. I’m sorry, I did not mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. This is when I normally wake.” The bishop pressed her lips against her forehead, and Ingrid smiled. “I almost cannot believe this is real.” She whispered breathlessly, raking her fingers through her hair playfully. “It is real, isn’t it?”

Ingrid lifted herself on her elbow and lowered her lips to meet Mercedes’s, kissing her as gently as she could manage. The bishop’s voice held a thread of fear. “It is real. But… it feels almost too good to be real. I never thought I could be this happy.” The past ten years had been fraught with hardship, challenges and obstacles barely surmountable. Plagues of grief and pain that never seemed to wane, but this was something good, something that made her warm and happy. “I almost feel like I don’t deserve to be this happy.”

“You do, we do.” Mercedes said emphatically, cupping her cheek. “We have both experienced so much… now I want to experience everything with you.”

“Me too.” Ingrid agreed. The cold morning air hit her bare skin, and she shivered. Mercedes laughed as Ingrid pulled the blankets back over her and snuggled into her side for the warmth of her body.

She turned on her side and wrapped both her arms around Ingrid’s shoulders, pulling her closer, so close that the knight had to turn her face so that it wasn’t buried between her breasts. “Whatever pains you. Whatever troubles you have. Whatever memories plague you. Whatever stands ahead of us. We have stood beside one another for so long now, I want to face the future _with_ you, Ingrid. I want us to share all of us with one another.”

“I want that too, more than anything, but…” Ingrid sighed; she was accustomed to keeping her pains and troubles to herself. Out of habit if nothing else. She knew she could trust the bishop, did trust her. “I may need reminding from time to time.”

“I am sure I can find some way to remind you.” There was mischief in her voice as she kissed the crown of her head. “I love you, Ingrid. I don’t want there to be any walls between us.”

“I love you too, Mercie.” Ingrid turned her head to kiss her chest, kiss her heart, feeling as though the gesture was an oath all its own. “I’ll do my best. No walls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This is the first thing I've written since COVID-19 started, so I feel it lacks my usual polish, but I'm getting back into the swing of things. 
> 
> I have already started the next one-shot for these two, so hopefully y'all still want to read about them!

**Author's Note:**

> If there is enough interest, I'll keep updating beyond what I initially planned. So let me know if y'all dig it. Or not. Whatever peels your banana. :-)


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